


The Trouble with Orchids

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Muggle Life, Mystery, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 77,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13257060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Everybody calls him Squid, and he has but one mission: destroy the Malfoy family. No one can take it from him – not the MLE, not Granger, and certainly not the ferret himself. However, they are welcome to try.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge "Thank you!" to the wonderful eilonwy, who Brit-picked, kept my grammar straight, gave excellent editorial advice, and turned these chapters around in record time. 
> 
> This story is rated 'M' for violence, profanity, implicit sexual situations, and some slash. All of the slash is in this first chapter, so please don't let that squick you away. ;)

**Chapter One**

Everybody calls him Squid.

This isn't his name. Of course it isn't. What parent in his or her right mind would name their child after a cephalopod, even the most impressive one? He has a real name, most assuredly, and it is a decent name, too – nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed by. But his peers had been incredibly insistent and, despite some initial arguing on his part, they began to persuade him. By the end of his first year, he had accepted the moniker. By the end of his second, he actually enjoyed it. And, as time passed and he grew into himself, Squid started to realize that the nickname suited him better than his given name.

So, he stuck with it.

And now, everybody calls him Squid.

Fortunately, saying that the name suited him did not just backhandedly describe his enjoyment of seafood, his lanky, too-long appendages, or his large, eerily glassy eyes. It also described the quality of his movement – fast and darting, never in one place for too long – and his knack for hiding in plain sight. Squid were adept at camouflage of all sorts. As perfectly adapted to living in colorful, teeming reefs as the darkest, loneliest recesses of the ocean, squid could change not only the color, but also the texture of their bodies in less than a second. If that didn't work, they could escape with a blast of ink.

It therefore seemed natural for Squid to adopt camouflage as his specialty. It took years of training, but he finally mastered the art. He excels at physical transfigurations, the construction and maintenance of illusions, and the sight-altering charms he could cast upon others. And he is probably the single biggest buyer of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder the Weasleys have ever had. But his favorite method of disguise is the Polyjuice Potion. The ability to take on an entirely new form is addictively freeing. He bathes in the anonymity of it, aches for the stinging, ripping, breaking, and rearranging of his body. Of his life.

He does not bother with a concealment tonight, however. The rain comes down in buckets, scattering the usual throng of Diagon Alley patrons like cockroaches exposed to sunlight. His brisk pace, dark robe, and deep hood shield him from general notice, but he cannot help but feel paranoid. His eyes flit from stranger to stranger, ever watchful, ever wary, but they take no notice. Their eyes slide over him as if he is underwater and they are caught in the sun's glare, seeing nothing more than their own reflection. He smirks, happy to have achieved anonymity without magic's aid.  _That_  is true mastery, and Squid feels proud of it.

After a few more minutes of fast-paced travel, he casts surreptitious glances to the left and right, then makes a sharp right into Trapsina Row – a corridor about as wide as two of him abreast, or one average person. Near the end of the alleyway, distinguished with a sign so miniscule it barely counts as a sign at all, is Afflicshun's Apothecary.

He hesitates for a moment before opening the rotting door. Afflicshun's isn't a new establishment by any stretch of the imagination, but it is new to him. The decision to make the change is not one he has made lightly, but it was one he deems necessary. He had attained an uncomfortably high level of recognition at his old apothecary – Harronbum's, in Knockturn Alley.

It was a series of what Squid now realizes were unacceptably sloppy mistakes that led to this undesirable familiarity with Walther Harronbum, the wizened owner of the store that shared his name. He was fresh from Hogwarts when he first sought Harronbum's services, and, though he recognized the need for disguise, he did not know how best to do it. Polyjuice Potion was easiest, so that was what he used. Acquiring Muggle hair was simple enough, and he would use the same Muggle only two to four times in a row before tossing out his stash and procuring more.

Because Harronbum's is a rather dodgy establishment, it is not uncommon to see someone once or twice and then never again. But a steady flow of 'strangers' who visited at semi-regular intervals and required rare, sub-legal materials was bound to attract attention. He should have known: Knockturn Alley may house unsavory figures, but it was a mistake to equate seedy with foolish. In fact, one could argue that Harronbum and his associates are sharper than most. Observation is key in a world where illicit trade makes more than a small blip on the Ministry's radar.

Squid's behavior was subtle enough that it took nearly two years before Harronbum pieced together that the 'strangers' who came in asking for Boomslang skin and Valerian root were actually just one person. Or, it took him two years before he made the connection known to Squid, addressing him as 'Mr Miatta' when he was disguised as 'Madam Therone.' This was accompanied by a deeply significant glance. Squid read it clearly under Harronbum's substantial, salt-and-pepper eyebrows.

Harronbum would never speak to anyone else about what he knew, or what he suspected he knew. Such chatter would be a flagrant breach of the unspoken accord among the patrons of Knockturn. Neither would he ever bring it up again. But he would never forget that information and, if a deal ever went sour, Harronbum would not hesitate to spill if it would save his own hide, customer loyalty be damned.

Hell, Squid would do the same thing.

Still, he wishes that he did not have to change. Harronbum's had served him well for a very long time. He was punctual, efficient, and – though he price-gouged mercilessly whenever Squid came in with a special, often illegal request – discreet. He could not ask for anything more from his apothecary and can only hope Afflicshun's will provide service that is half as satisfactory.

When Squid sees the man behind the counter, that hope immediately dies. The man behind the counter is far too familiar and, if Squid's memory can be counted on (and it can) had never had a reputation for subtlety. Squid instantly wants nothing to do with him. He pivots, planning to flee, but he is paralyzed by a memory.

He ran once before. Has he forgotten the consequences of that particular flight? He saved his own skin and lost something irreplaceable because of it. Has he forgotten his vow? The promise he made to never run again?

He has not, and he will not be reneging on it now, especially considering from whom he would be running.

The icy fear flooding his veins is obliterated by scorching anger. Squid breaks out in chills. Why should he run? Squid deserves to be here more than  _he_  does. And this is a place of business – the only shop Squid had researched thoroughly enough to feel confident in patronizing. He needs those ingredients today. There is not time to find another apothecary.

Cool determination soothes his skin, and Squid pivots again. Slowly, he lifts his hands and lowers his hood. The man behind the counter stills completely as their eyes meet. They stare at each other for a long minute while the rain pounds outside. After an eternity, the man behind the counter tears his eyes away, in shame or embarrassment or because he finally recognizes him. Squid does not know which; he is not good at reading emotions. He takes a steadying breath and begins his task.

He moves through the shop quickly and, in no less than two minutes, sets his purchases onto the counter. The man behind the counter rings him up slowly, but not because he doesn't know how. His movements are controlled, precise, as if he doesn't want to damage the delicate phials of harpy spit or rip the delicate package of powdered griffon claw.

Squid appreciates his care. It would take no effort at all for the man behind the counter to destroy not only all of his purchases, but Squid himself. His limbs are too big for his body, too bulky and muscled. Squid absently wonders what he was doing in a cramped apothecary, and then he glances the man's hands.

Calling them "battered" would understate the severity of the visible damage. Each knuckle is bruised, the skin stretched over them mottled purple to blue to green to sickly yellow. More than a few are split open. Most are thickly scabbed, but one is bandaged, and Squid can see maroon blood staining the white-grey cotton.

The sight comforts him. Here is evidence that even the strongest could bleed. The man behind the counter can break Squid's body into two without breaking a sweat, but he can be hurt, too.

Squid can hurt him.

In that moment, the man ceases to be a threat. Squid even smirks as he places his gold into those battered hands. The man behind the counter is human.

The illusion is broken.

The entire transaction takes five minutes, and Squid leaves without saying a word. The trip is a small sort of victory, but he doubts he will ever go back. No matter how fulfilling it felt to stand before that man and prove his strength by mere existence, it is against his nature to associate with the familiar. The man behind the counter is not an enemy, not a threat, but is a complication.

Squid has not survived for so long by ignoring complications.

Only one month passes before Squid needs to darken Afflicshun's doorstep once again. Squid scowls into his cauldron, but that is the nature of experimental potions: he rarely knows what he needs nor how much of it until he is halfway through. Buy too much and he has not only wasted gold, but space and effort. Buy too little – like this time – and he has to run back before doing the due diligence on another apothecary.

He dons his cloak, tucks his wand into his sleeve, and hesitates, his hand resting on the doorknob.

The weather is overcast today, but there is no hint of rain. More people will be out. He should disguise himself.

Should.

It is his habit, his protection, but today it feels wrong. It feels like running. Like hiding. Like fear. And Squid isn't afraid. Even if the man behind the counter will not recognize him while Polyjuiced, it feels unfair to face him as someone else, especially considering their history.

He knows pride or resolve or some other stupid emotion is clouding his judgment. He knows it is a mistake. He knows he will eventually regret it.

He does it anyway.

Squid takes a twisting, turning route to Afflicshun's to help assuage his paranoia and, by the time he arrives in the dark alley, he feels surprisingly better. He opens the door without hesitation and meets the shopkeeper's eyes. They stare at each other for a moment that is not as intense or prolonged as last time. It is a stare of recognition and mutual acceptance.

Squid is content to leave all of their communication nonverbal, but the man behind the counter apparently does not feel the same.

"You're that kid."

Squid looks up, meeting the man's eyes once more. Squinty eyes, he realizes now. Dark, with heavy eyebrows.

"You're that kid," the man repeats. "The one with the br –"

Squid hisses – literally hisses – his displeasure. The man's eyes open wide in surprise.

"You're that guy," Squid growls in return. "The one with the de –"

The man slams his hand onto the counter, cutting off the rest of his sentence. He draws his hand away, revealing Squid's change. Squid takes it and leaves with a scowl, but knows he will return. He and the man behind the counter have an understanding now.

Afflicshun's has just become his new apothecary. No disguise required.

Two months pass. Months that see little success for Squid. The potion he is attempting to create –a variant of Polyjuice that could provide disguise for an entire day without needing to be refreshed – keeps failing his animal trials. Lucky for him, his filthy domicile is never short on vermin, but he has to go thieving to restock his gold and, thusly, his ingredients.

He is bizarrely excited for his visit to Afflicshun's, but keeps his face impassive as he passes through the threshold. The man's eyebrows shoot up when he walks through the door and lowers his hood, as per their routine. When Squid lays his purchases on the counter, the man speaks.

"Didn't think I'd see you again. Thought I scared you off."

"I do not run away," Squid replies slowly, emphasizing each syllable.

The man nods. As if he understands. As if he comprehends. As if such a thing is possible.

"You're-"

"Squid," he interjects sharply. "If you really must know."

The man thinks for a minute. "Ape."

Squid meets Ape's eyes and really looks. They are hard, glittering, and reflect a damage that Squid feels. He nods once, takes his change and his bag, and leaves, feeling for the first time in years that he may not be entirely alone on this planet.

Two weeks later, it is Squid who initiates the conversation.

"Do you take special requests?"

Ape lifts both heavy eyebrows. Squid already knows the answer. He would not be at Afflicshun's if they did not. Ape does not know Squid knows that. This is a true test of their understanding.

Ape nods after a moment's consideration. Squid feels like he has won. "Manager does. He's out for the day. Come back tomorrow."

"No." Another eyebrow lift. "I need the order in today, and I need it placed discreetly."

"The manager…"

"I do not care about the bloody  _manager_." His sharp tone edges the already tinny silence. He breathes deeply, attempting to stay calm. He did not expect to meet this kind of resistance from Ape, though he has prepared for it, just as he prepares for everything else.

"Take my order, Ape. You will not be sorry." He slides a Sickle across the counter.

Ape's eyes widen. He palms the coin and withdraws a ledger. Despite his initial reluctance, it seems like Ape has done this before. Squid smirks, pleased at the maneuver. Ape is not an idiot; he waits until the moment of maximum benefit before acting. It is an admirable trait.

He pushes a scrap of parchment across the counter next and studies Ape's expression intently as he unfolds it.

"Class Five Untradeable, that is," he grunts.

Squid's smirk widens. It is another test. "By Thursday. No later." It is Monday. Ape shoots him a quick, appraising glance, then nods. Squid is once again pleased: Ape has passed.

"Shouldn't be a problem. Fifty Galleons, give or take a few Sickles. I trust you'll come prepared."

Squid nods. "Thursday?"

"Two a.m., Thursday morning. Whisper your name to the broken brick two feet to the left of the door."

Squid smiles at this, his first genuine smile in a long time.  _This_  is discreet. He likes discreet.

Two days feels like an eternity.

Heavily cloaked and shrouded in darkness, Squid makes his way through the deserted streets like a rat, darting from shadow to shadow. He finds the broken brick and whispers, "Squid." He is afraid for a moment that Ape meant his  _real_  name and feels a rush of relief as a narrow corridor reveals itself. He squeezes through to what must be the back of the shop. He turns around to look for Ape and nearly pisses himself when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He does not flinch, though, and even manages to remain impassive when he turns around to face his dealer. How a man Ape's size can look so small behind a counter is a mystery Squid feels confident he will never solve. He is massive. Barrel-chested and broad, positively  _hulking_. Squid feels vulnerable: he is almost six feet tall, but scrawny and weak. His only comfort is that, if Ape  _does_  choose to attack, Squid has a vial or two of poison that will knock the big man out for at least an hour. That is more than enough time to escape.

There is no need for self-defense tonight, however. Ape holds out his hand.

"Fifty-two Galleons."

Squid swallows his annoyance. The price hike is a sign of good faith – a test for Squid – and he cannot begrudge his coworker a small bonus for his troubles. Squid sets the bag of gold into Ape's waiting palm and waits for him to inspect it. He pockets it, finding its weight satisfactory, and passes Squid's package over. Squid holds the tiny vial to what little light the moon affords them. The venom glimmers like oil in water, thick and dangerous. Perfect.

He smiles at Ape and nods. "Until next time."

Next time is a season away, but not much has changed about the shop or the alley except for the weather. When once it was soaked with rain, it is now packed with snow. An altogether more inconvenient circumstance, as Squid has to turn every few feet to erase his tracks. By the time he reaches the shop, it is late. Ape is closing up.

"Squid," he says by way of greeting.

"Ape. Just need a few things. Won't take more than a minute." The large man hesitates, then nods.

Squid is true to his word. Two minutes later, both he and Ape stand on the doorstep of Afflicshun's.

"Join me at the pub?"

Squid pauses and considers the large man for a long moment. The pub… He has not been to a pub in ages, preferring to drink and wallow alone at home. He is nothing but a disgrace to himself there, vomiting or pissing all over himself before passing out face-down in a puddle of whatever sick had escaped him, only to wake up crusty and nauseated all over again. Tears always threaten soon after, but the physical pain of the night before always staves off the emotional hurt. It is not a ritual he relishes, but it is one that works.

Maybe this can work, too. Squid recognizes a brokenness in Ape that mirrors his own. He sees, too, evidence of Ape's own self-destructive patterns. His bloodied and bruised knuckles have not disappeared and there is a shadow of a scrape on his chin. He feels a kinship with Ape that he never thought could exist. Why not try?

They walk in silence through knee-high drifts toward the Bloodied Maiden, one of Knockturn's seedier establishments, where the glasses are dirty and the women are worse. They sit at an ill-lit corner table and drink.

And drink.

They drink until closing. Squid sways when he stands, wrestling himself into his cloak. Ape handles his booze better. He is (thankfully) steady on his feet. Squid cannot imagine having to support the man if he fell or stumbled. Something shifts in his eyes, however, and Squid wonders if they have more in common than just being broken. He is drunk enough to find out.

"Want to go back to my place?"

Ape hesitates for good reason. Blokes like them do not just invite each other over for a nightcap without an ulterior motive. Then again, blokes like them do not typically invite each other to pubs late at night without a motive of their own.

Squid  _has_  the motive. He has never had an interest in sex for the emotional benefit, but he is a man. There is no denying the physical pleasure of it. Squid denies himself rigorously in most aspects of his life, but he refuses to deny his lust. Usually he has to pay for it, but if he can indulge tonight for free, all the better.

He does not mind the disconnect – the sex without the attachment. He has never felt connected to anyone in that way, not since his loss, and not before that either, he recalls. He has tried to fake it, tried to replicate infatuation with both sexes, but the masquerade is excruciating and exhausting. Dismissal, rejection, abuse, humiliation… These are the emotional tolls of love, and they are too high for Squid to pay.

He considers explaining all this to Ape. Maybe he would say yes if he understands what Squid wants, or rather, does not want. But either Ape is keyed to nuances, or Squid is better at expressing himself than he thought.

"My place," is Ape's reply. They exit the bar together.

Squid does not know how it happened. It begins as Side-Along Apparation and ends with Ape's body colliding with his. And then he is bent over the arm of a couch, and his pants are around his ankles, and there is intense pain and exquisite fulfillment. No emotion, no connection. Only movement. Intimate contact. Instinctual rutting.

And it works.

The numbness lasts until he gets home. Once ensconced in his room, however, the trembling begins. It lasts through the night, punctuated occasionally by fits of joyful sobbing.

It works. There is something better. There is someone else.

There is Ape.

They develop a routine. It is unlike him to do so. Routines are dangerous. If he is predictable, someone can recognize him, connect him to things that he ought not to be connected to. But denying himself is dangerous too, and in this case, the benefits of a liaison far outweigh the risk.

Whenever he needs potion ingredients, and soon, whenever he needs something more, Squid arrives at Afflicshun's just before closing. The manager is never in, preferring to handle black-market trade from the comfort of his sitting room in a small flat in a nicer part of Diagon Alley. Ape is responsible for the daily happenings in the apothecary.

Daily happenings like Ape fucking Squid on the till with the curtains still open. Or experimenting with the more innocuous ingredients whose effects caused body parts to swell, or burn, or tingle. Or forgoing the pub in favor of climbing the rickety, narrows stairs to Ape's three-room apartment above the shop and fucking there.

They never kiss. They never murmur sweet nothings. Never even touch one another more than is necessary to achieve mutual satisfaction. It is impersonal, almost professional, and Squid is determined to keep it that way.

Then, one late night, their dalliance is more violent than usual. Ape's blow to his head knocks him out, and Squid wakes several hours later in Ape's bed, with Ape himself sitting nearby, simply watching with his dark, calm eyes. The feeling of invasion is at once so exhilarating and horrifying that Squid momentarily entertains the idea of pretending again, and instead of sounding ludicrous, the idea is compelling.

It is months before Ape asks Squid to stay the night. Neither of them sleep. They lay in the small bed, not touching, and talk about their pasts. They compare experiences, agonize over mistakes, make useless excuses, and do not bother with apologies.

They talk at great length about their brokenness. They talk about the root of it, the hatred they feel, the all-consuming desire for revenge and justice. They discover their common cause and, for the first time in long, long while, Squid feels like he has an ally. An ally with the resources he lacks and whose reason matches his own in form, if not in passion.

He has imagined what he would do if the pieces were somehow able to fall into place. Despite this constant planning, it takes more than a month to assemble his ideas into something sensible. It takes another week to work up the courage to bring Ape into his plan and an enthusiastic fellatio to convince him to agree to it.

At Ape's silent nod, Squid feels an arousal that has nothing to do with the man before him. He smiles and, with a sudden show of strength, flips Ape over and drives into him. The control is new and intoxicating, and it is not long before he loses himself in it, finishing far too quickly. But this is not the last time. No, this is just the beginning.

It is May 4.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**May 30**

Draco Malfoy sat on his old, comfortable sofa, naked but for a pair of silk boxer shorts. He flicked his wand lazily at the television and watched with glazed, silver eyes as the channels changed. A man in overalls with one red and one green suspender gestured to a roll of duct tape and a few lengths of white tubing.  _Flick_. Three men on a large boat dangled long poles over its stern and chatted animatedly against a bright blue sky. One rod went taut and all three turned away from the camera. One grabbed a net.  _Flick_. A man in camouflage – which Draco thought was a misnomer as  _he_  could still see the man perfectly well – held up the head of a dead stag and smiled proudly.  _Flick_. A woman in a tight purple jumpsuit held out a bottle of pills and flashed a brilliant smile. Her hair was too blonde to be natural; Draco took it as a personal affront.  _Flick_. A violently yellow cartoon sponge talked to a squirrel with a glass bowl over its head. Both were underwater.

He sneered and took another sip of his drink: a cheap Canadian whiskey he had found at the liquor store in town. It did not have the melt-your-intestines, knock-you-flat-with-one-glass blaze that was distinctly Ogden's, but a few tumblers had him feeling comfortably mellow, although not nearly mellow enough to watch the sponge continue its pineapple-bound antics. And did that snail just  _meow_? He shook his head at the lunacy; sitting through  _this_ program would require at least two more glasses.

He knew because he'd done it before.

A final flick made the screen go black; he wasn't in the mood for absurdity tonight. The small cottage plunged into darkness and silence. Draco hated Muggle programming. He had lived with it for almost two and a half years now and had yet to see anything with merit other than a United States-based police drama that his aerial received intermittently at best.

He supposed the poor reception was a product of where he lived: a few miles west of a small, heavily wooded Muggle community called Lion's Head on the Canadian shore of Lake Huron. It was about two hundred and sixty miles away from the nearest Ministry of Magic – located in Ottawa – but only sixty miles away from the nearest wizarding town, Greyfarer's Rest.

He had only visited Ottawa once. The day he arrived, in fact. He had never been to North America before and had been amazed at how strongly Wizarding Ottawa reminded him of Wizarding London. The same crazed, almost frantic pace at which people moved. The same cheery exchange of gold for goods. The same, barely restrained whimsy and delight at the magic they had all grown up with. It was too much the same, in fact. When a mother and father walked down the street with their child, Draco imagined shopping for cauldrons and telescopes before starting Hogwarts with his own parents. When a trio of teenagers passed him talking of nothing but brooms, Draco was reminded of Goyle and, with a small wave of sadness, Crabbe.

He left that same day and had not been back once.

Greyfarer's Rest was much more to his liking, and he graced its dour streets with his equally dour presence four times a year. It was a small town and aptly named, with grey buildings and grey streets and, more often than not, a grey sky. Draco never saw the same faces on any two trips and, if he did, they were unlikely to see his. People kept their eyes down in the Rest, kept to themselves, which is exactly what he wanted. They even wore Muggle clothing. This saved him a great deal of trouble: his robes were packed away in the bottom of his trunk and undoubtedly years out of fashion.

He would visit only for an hour or two to exchange his gold into Muggle money and pop into the pub to buy a case or two of Butterbeer, and, since Muggle swill was so infuriatingly tame, several bottles of Canadian firewhiskey. Gutrot, the local brand was called. Another accurate name. These Canadians were clearly on to something.

He would stay longer – maybe have a drink or two and catch up on the local gossip – but he had once made the mistake of asking if they received The Daily Prophet there. Yes, the one from England. The entire pub had fallen silent and all eyes had turned to him. Draco felt his cheeks flame red. He had knocked back his drink and left with a firm frown. From then on, he took care to darken his damningly characteristic platinum hair whenever he visited. He doubted the barman would recognize him, but one could never be too careful, even in the Rest.

One could never be too careful. Draco had never lived by those words before, but now they were his gospel. He thought them before he went to bed each night when he recast his security jinxes. He thought them when he woke up the morning, usually with a roaring hangover and a similarly inconvenient erection, and was tempted –  _so tempted_  – to seek relief in one of the few decent-looking local women. He never did. That would be the  _opposite_  of careful. Hell, that would be plain stupid.

Draco was through with being stupid.

He sighed and took another sip, rolling the liquor over his tongue, willing it to burn hotter, to start a fire in his belly instead of his loins, but he was a man and this was alcohol. The outcome was predictable, and when combined with his solitude, was a recipe for one pitiful, lonely night and another pitiful, lonely morning.

He set his glass down. His hands traveled south – a journey oft taken – and a beautiful girl with wide, innocent eyes and thick hair danced across his imagination. She was completely naked, her breasts large and perky, her nipples dusky, her lips full and pink, her lust-filled eyes only for him. It was his routine and he fell into it with a heavy moan, allowing his mind to wander free for its second allotted moment per day.

It was going so peacefully (and rather creatively, as the doe-eyed girl had taken the liberty of tying him up tonight) until a loud alarm pierced the quiet. His fantasy disappeared in less than an instant and Draco bolted upright. With one wave of his wand, the noise ceased. It wasn't like anyone else could hear it, but it was rather loud and he needed to focus. He moved across his small living room in two large steps and reached toward the mantle above his fireplace, where sat a grimy and foul-looking gremlin figurine. He grabbed it and held it up to his face.

"How many?" he whispered.

"Four," the gremlin whispered back, its grey-green lips hardly moving. "Two're already at the door."

Three swift knocks indicated that the gremlin was indeed correct. Draco cursed violently and slammed it back on its shelf, where it spouted profanities to rival his own.

He had no time to deal with the gremlin's hurt feelings, however. Strangers – four  _magical_  strangers – had found him. He had prepared for this eventuality, of course, but never imagined it would happen so soon. He stood next to the door with his back against the wall, wand drawn and a compendium of hexes just waiting to be used. For a fleeting moment, he thought of trousers. Bah, there was no time for trousers!

"Who's there?" he growled, loud enough so that the stranger could hear him. "Declare yourselves!"

"Hermione Granger, officer of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic, London, England. I have a matter to discuss with Draco Lucius Malfoy. May I come in?"

Draco swore silently. Of all people, it had to be her. "A little late for house calls, don't you think?"

"Not where I'm from, it isn't."

"You're not in London anymore."

"Well spotted, ferret-face."

Draco's sneer turned into a full-on scowl. Of all people who could possibly make the situation even  _worse_.

"Sod off, Weasley!"

"Malfoy, the sooner you open this door, the sooner you'll be rid of us."

The logic of the statement appealed to him as much as her high-pitched exasperation did not.

"Tell me now," he countered.

Weasley muttered something unintelligible. Draco assumed it was rude as well.

"It's too sensitive to discuss through a door," Hermione ground out from between clenched teeth. "Let us in,  _please_!"

"But a bit risky for me, isn't it? Admitting strangers this late at night?"

"Are you asking me to prove my identity?" Draco gestured at the door to continue – foolishly, he realized after he did it, as she couldn't see him. She understood anyway and sighed in irritation. Well, at least he was doing something right.

"You are Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, neé Black. You were in Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and attempted to kill Headmaster Dumbledore our sixth year."

He snarled. "Anyone would know that."

She cleared her throat and continued in a softer voice, one that only he and Weasley could hear. "I slapped you in the face our third year for laughing at Hagrid. We saved your life twice during the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Shite." Desire and drunkenness instantly quenched, Draco put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated.

Granger. Of all the women on the bloody planet, it had to be  _Granger_. Granger, whom he had seen tortured on his drawing room floor. Granger, who had screamed and cried and begged while he stood by uselessly, frozen in horror, torn between a desire to help and a desire to flee. Granger, who had witnessed this turmoil and knew him better than most others because of it. Granger, who had spoken for him at the trial despite all of that.

She was the one witch whom Draco would have been fine with never seeing again in his life.

She was the one witch to whom Draco owed more than he could ever repay.

And the know-it-all little swot  _would_  be the one to find him first. Not to mention that idiot lackey of hers…

The ginger devil's fist pounded the door. "Malfoy, this is official business. Your reluctance could be interpreted as obstruction of justice, and it's awfully suspicious. The Aurors Office would be more than happy to take you in on it!"

If Draco was thinking clearly, he would have countered with his right to deny entry to his domicile without a warrant, and that mere  _suspicion_  of wrongdoing wasn't enough to transport someone all the way back to bloody London. But as it was, he had imbibed two glasses of whiskey, which, no, was not enough to watch the sea sponge cartoon but, yes, was enough to make Weasley's threats seem credible.

He growled and yanked open the door, wand raised before him. Though her face and body were swathed in the deep night shadows, he could see the grey outline of Hermione's outstretched arm and the faintly luminous wand tip that was pointed right at his chest. Weasley's was similarly positioned, though Draco could see even less of him.

"Lower your wand." Her voice was low and authoritative.

"You first."

She scoffed. "Unlikely."

"I'm outnumbered, Granger. Tell your two goons and this idiot to leave, then I'll consider it."

Hermione hesitated and Draco heard her small, sharp intake of breath. He supposed she was surprised. "They're here on assignment."

"And I'm here for her protection," Weasley added.

It was Draco's turn to scoff. "The assignment's buggered unless they shove off. And I always assumed you were capable of defending yourself, Granger. Or was the  _brightest bint in our year_  nonsense just that?"

"It was not nonsense," she growled softly, and – though it was hard to tell – he thought he heard a bit of damaged pride. "Give me a moment." She took a few steps away from the door and pulled Weasley with her. She spoke to him quietly, but not quietly enough.

"Ron, you have to go."

"Fat chance."

"You shouldn't even be here. I told you I didn't need you."

"You don't know what you need."

Hermione hissed in displeasure, her fingers shifting to better grip her wand. Draco let out a barking laugh.

"There's nothing I enjoy more than a bickering couple on my doorstep in the middle of the night," Draco said with a sarcastic sigh. "And though I'm required by genetics to have some sympathy for my sex… Weasley? You're a fucking moron." Ron growled and shuffled Hermione a few steps further into the darkness. He otherwise ignored Draco's commentary.

"You just haven't had as much field experience as I have. I don't want Malfoy to trick or catch you off-gua –"

"Ronald Weasley, need I remind you of what happened last time we had this conversation?"

"Beaten by a  _girl_ , Weasley? Are you  _completely_  useless?" Draco asked in his haughtiest tone.

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!"

"The both of you shut it!" Hermione snapped. "Malfoy, you will not say another word."

"I'd like to see you stop me. That was seven."

"And  _you_ , Ronald," she said, never breaking stride, "are leaving.  _Now_. Baker, Dell?" she called, louder. Two large but otherwise indistinct shapes shuffled in the darkness beyond. "Apparate with Auror Weasley to the Canadian Ministry and grab a Portkey to London. I have this handled."

"Hermione…"

"Officer Granger, Auror Weasley is right. This untrustworthy piece of scum –"

"I am well aware of your opinion,  _Baker_ , and have told you repeatedly that I refuse to tolerate bigotry on my squad. Leave now and I'll consider leaving it out of my report. And don't you dare  _Hermione_  me, Ronald. Leave, all of you!  _Now_!"

Her tone, which hadn't brooked argument before, turned absolutely lethal. Weasley and Baker grumbled. Dell, apparently the wisest of the bunch, had remained silent through the whole ordeal. All three Disapparated, leaving only Hermione on his doorstep, nearly shaking with rage.

"Well, that was entertaining. Now that you've reduced my problem by seventy-five percent, I'd say it's time to call it a night." He made to shut the door on her but her foot was faster, wedging itself between the frame and the solid oak paneling.

"You said you'd let me in."

"I lied."

"Well I wasn't. I need to talk to you."

"Remove your foot, or I'll remove it for you."

"That'd be assaulting an officer."

"And you're breaking and entering."

She removed her foot with a loud huff. He began to shut the door when she said quickly, "There's been an incident. It involves your parents."

Draco's heart skipped a beat and he paused with the door half-shut. His parents? He hadn't heard anything from them for months. Then again, transoceanic flights were astonishingly difficult, bordering on impossible, even for the most resilient birds. Still, if it had been a true emergency, they would have found some way to contact him directly.

Right?

Draco yanked the door back open and studied her closely. He found little, as she remained shrouded in darkness.

"What is it?"

"Let me in."

He hesitated. It was  _Granger_. Bane and boon but – and he hated to admit it – trustworthy.

Draco growled his assent. "You have ten minutes."

He stepped aside, storming toward the whiskey. Hermione waved her wand and the cottage was illuminated with soft, flattering light. She closed and locked his door, then cast several other charms. Wards, he suspected, though who knew what she thought she was protecting. Draco poured himself a generous three fingers and looked at her properly for the first time in several years.

She had wide, innocent eyes, deep brown and just as fathomless as the forest at night, bright even in the soft light, and full of curiosity as she scrutinized his ramshackle home. He set down his whiskey as his loins twitched. When had her eyes become so dangerous? And how had he never noticed them before?

At last, she turned her powerful eyes back to him. They narrowed and she stood with her arms akimbo.

"How did you know about my men?" she demanded.

Ah yes. That was how he'd never noticed.

"You broke my security jinxes," he replied, purposefully evasive.

"Standard jinxes tell you about the presence of magic, not the quantity."

"Perhaps mine was not a standard jinx." He shot her a pointed look, and her eyes narrowed further, frustratingly unreadable.

"Unregistered spells are - "

"Completely legal."

"Highly risky," she admonished.

"Oh, Granger, I didn't know you cared," he sneered, satisfied to see her cheeks turn an altogether too alluring shade of pink. He shook himself. "Tell me what you're doing here or get the hell out of my house."

She nodded, one curt, downward jerk of her head. "Very well. You may want to take a seat."

Her tone set off all of Draco's mental alarms. His posture turned rigid as his body held itself to its full and not unimpressive height. "I'll stand," he replied coolly.

She nodded again, her mien professional. "Over the past few weeks, Malfoy Manor has been experiencing a string of intrusions."

"Intrusions?" he interrupted quickly. "Of what nature?"

"Will you let me finish?" she asked impatiently. He rolled his eyes and waved her on. She glared and continued. "Two weeks ago, the southern perimeter wards were breached. Your parents went to investigate, but by the time they arrived, whoever it was had Disapparated. Four days later, there was another breach, closer to the Manor itself. Again, they found nothing. Lucius and Narcissa, instead of reporting these intrusions to the Ministry..." – he noted the tightness in her tone – "took it upon themselves to institute a property patrol. Three nights ago, another breach occurred. A house-elf was attacked. This time, they were able to confront the intruder. Spells were fired."

Draco's chest constricted. The Malfoys were not a popular family. That was part of the reason he had left in the first place. But for an attack to occur on their  _own property_  meant something else entirely. Such a display of power and hubris could only be taken as a threat of the most lethal variety.

"My parents?"

"They're fine. But the elf..." She glanced at her shoes in remorse, and Draco squelched the impulse to put his hand to his forehead in relief. "Narcissa has been put under house arrest," she continued after a moment of silence, "and a Ministry guard has been deployed. Your father's sentence remains unchanged."

"How many men?"

"Six, rotating daily."

"It's not enough."

Hermione looked troubled. "I didn't think so either. I tried to persuade Bates – my department head – to assign more, but we're stretched thin at the moment."

"I have to go back."

"No." Her reply was forceful. Draco stopped mid-step to look at her. He did, hard, giving her his best and most threatening glare. "That's exactly what I'm here to prevent. The Ministry wants to take you into custody. We're not arresting you." She put her hands up as he stepped toward her, as if that could calm him. "We believe these invasions are a legitimate threat and don't want to take any chances. Protective custody provided by the Ministry is the best way to ensure your safety."

"The Malfoys make powerful enemies, Granger," he said in a deep, dangerous voice. "Whoever has the nads to threaten us has more than enough to consider taking on the  _Ministry_."

"We're doing the best we can to –"

"Ensure the restriction of my mother's social life, not her safety. I need to be with them. A threat against one is a threat against all."

"Exactly!" Hermione said, as if he had made the point for her. "The Ministry doesn't know what the intrusions mean, but one of our theories involves getting to you. The best way to do this would be through your parents. Does that make sense?"

It did, but he would never admit that to her. "A crack theory is not justification enough to arrest me –"

"It's  _protective custody_."

"Even more reason for me to go to them," he continued, ignoring her. "Strength in numbers."

"No. Don't you see? It's even more reason for you to stay away. I found you, Malfoy, but it took me three days of non-stop searching, and I'm exceptionally clever. If you go back, that buffer will be gone. They'll know exactly where to find you, and then we could have more than intrusions and half-hearted duels to deal with. You need to be kept out of the public eye until we have enough information to make an arrest."

"Until you have enough information? When the hell will that be?"

"I don't know."

"And just where would you be keeping me?"

The tension in her shoulders dissipated and relief flitted across her face. He couldn't fathom why.

"The Ministry has arranged a safe house in Wales. We should leave now. Pack a bag – only the essentials. We'll provide the rest."

He laughed sharply. "Pack? You're under the impression that I've agreed!"

She stopped fidgeting and stared at him. "I thought…"

"I'm not setting foot in Europe unless I'm en route to Wiltshire."

In a snap, the tension was back. "You're refusing?"

"Obviously. Now if that's all…" He gestured toward the door.

Her expression shifted. She looked as if she were about to tell him a very hard truth. "There is another option."

"Go on."

"I can't force you to take the Ministry's offer, but we're still beholden to protect you."

"I'm out of your jurisdiction. You're not  _beholden_  to do anything."

She scowled. "It reflects poorly upon the Ministry to let one of its citizens get murdered, and the backlash would be even worse since… Well, since it's you. So, yes, we are."

He tried to ignore the implications of what being  _him_  actually meant. "For your own interests."

"For our  _mutual_  interests," she corrected. "You won't die as a result of this."

"Doesn't that depend on option two?"

She forced a smile. "Perhaps it does. Option two is a live-in, Ministry-approved guard."

A switch of understanding flicked on immediately. "You are that guard."

"Correct."

"Absolutely not."

"Then you'll pack for Wales?"

"No."

"Well those are your options. Like it or not, one of those will be happening and, though I can't extradite you without your permission, I  _am_  authorized to take up temporary residence, your approval be damned."

"I propose a third option.  _You_  go to bloody Wales,  _I_ stay right here. You contact me when you finally manage to catch the raging psychopath who seems to think attacking the family elves is an intelligent life decision."

"If you think the Ministry is daft enough to assume you would follow directions, then you're more insane than rumored. The supervision is to make sure you don't do anything stupid, like return to England or look for the intruders on your own."

"I am more than capable of handling myself alone, Granger," he deadpanned. Her eyes flicked up and down his body, and he thought her saw her eyebrow rise just the slightest bit. He momentarily regretted not making time for trousers, but made no move to cover himself. This was his house, after all, and he could wear whatever he pleased! If he wanted to be stark naked in the middle of the  _afternoon_ , that was his prerogative and none of her bloody business!

He was about to tell her so when her eyes drifted to the half-empty whiskey bottle near the chair and the nearly full glass on the table. Draco scowled, failing to ignore her self-satisfied expression. His need for trousers was forgotten one more. Apparently, Hermione had grown from a condescending, holier-than-thou student into a full-fledged, judgmental, sanctimonious bitch.

"I do not need you here, Granger. Moreover, I do not  _want_  you here. Your job is to take care of my parents." He stalked over to the door and opened it, gesturing her out. The girl simply crossed her arms and stared at him pityingly, as if he'd seriously misunderstood something Flitwick had said in Charms.

"My job is to ensure your safety."

"And my sanity?"

She grimaced. "A secondary concern."

"Bloody fuck." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I am not above using force to get you out of here," he threatened.

She tutted and crossed her arms, patience clearly running low. "Oh, come off it. If how you smell is any indication of your current blood alcohol level, I doubt you could cast a charm to tie your own shoelaces."

The jab triggered his pride, which in turn raised his wand. Before it could even reach his navel, it flew out of his hand into her open palm and he was pinned against the wall. The rough stone scraped against the bare skin of his back, but that wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as being rendered powerless by a short witch with thick curly hair and wide, doe eyes.

She must have seen the horrified expression cross his face. She released him immediately and took two steps backward, staring at him as if he had just slapped her. "I'm sorry, that was… unprofessional. I should have given you a warning first. I'm not… I'm not going to hurt you," she stuttered in embarrassment.

He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. "They've trained you well."

"They told me not to take chances."

Draco heard the silent 'with you' attached to her statement and felt his pride twitch angrily again. "You're still not staying here."

There was that look again, that pitying, almost tender expression that did something strange to his chest. He knew quite well what she was thinking, knew that he could not allow her idea to come to fruition, and that – in the end – what he could or couldn't allow was moot. She would get her way and would be positively insufferable about it. Because he was not going back to England, not on her terms. Not on anyone's terms but his own, in fact. And she would not leave until she got  _her_  way. He would not go down without a fight, however.

"I'm not going to Wales." It was his final decision.

"Me neither, then."

"Fine, if that's how it is, so be it. There's a motel in town," he suggested coolly. "It's close, but you'll want to take the truck. You'll look suspicious Apparating."

"Malfoy, don't make me say it again."

"Hopefully they'll still have a room open. It's tourist season, you know."

She sighed and flicked her wand. Several loud thuds and muted swishing noises emanated from the guest room. Draco looked past her to the partially opened door, spying the corner of a foreign trunk and an unnaturally full closet.

"Don't fuss about making up the second bedroom," she said. "I brought my own set of sheets."

At first, her preparedness surprised him, but then he remembered who she was.

"I'll give you money for tonight, but I expect you to go to Gringotts tomorrow to pay me back." It was a token final effort, but one he had to make. She hung her cloak upon the back of a kitchen chair, removed her heavy boots, and looked far too comfortable examining his cupboards, which, he remembered now, were embarrassingly bare, not unlike the rest of his life. She located a glass and filled it with tap water.

"You're sleeping on the couch," he quipped testily.

She leveled a tired, hurt expression at him over her water glass. The alcohol must have been affecting him more than he had originally thought because he felt immediately ashamed.

"Let's get some sleep." She set the glass on the counter. "We can talk more tomorrow."

"No. If you're going to just move into my life, then I deserve to know everything you do. You can't just tell me that my family is being threatened and expect me to sleep through the night."

"Malfoy, you're –"

"I swear to Circe, if you say one more word about my damned blood alcohol level…"

"It's late," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Or early, rather. I've already adjusted myself to the time change. One night is all I ask."

"And why should I let you have it? You're the intruder here, and I deserve explanations!"

"You do, and I've told you the facts. All I have left is conjecture, and there's too much of it to discuss tonight. I'll show myself to my room."

"You could teach stubbornness to a mule, Granger."

"Says the pot to the kettle," she muttered with a roll of her eyes. She brushed past him, ignoring his glare.

"This isn't going to work," he said to her retreating form. "We'll kill each other."

"That would be counterproductive," she retorted, "and reflect poorly on my yearly review. Goodnight, Malfoy."

Without further ado, she shut her door, leaving him in his softly lit dining room, alone, yet less lonely, and far more confused, worried, and furious than before she arrived. He shot back the whiskey, wincing at the overlarge gulp, and left the glass on the table. He ventured into his bedroom and crawled into bed.

Draco tried to ignore the fact that a foreign trunk sat discreetly in the corner of his guest bedroom, the faint smell of jasmine that seemed to have pervaded his house, and the homey, personal sounds coming from the loo. He got up from bed and cast a silencing charm on the small restroom, but it was no use: the privacy of his life had been invaded, shattered by a woman from his past with wide eyes, thick brown hair, and an indefatigable will.

His abandoned fantasy popped back into his brain, but the woman with the innocent eyes now had a face and a name. His upper lip curled in frustration. What he wouldn't give to have Hermione out of his life and back into his head.

A nameless, faceless desire was so much easier to deal with than a real woman.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**May 31**

Draco woke the next morning with the sense that something was seriously wrong. He did not try to place the feeling; his mind was in no state for that level of reasoning. He instead chose the process of elimination. If he listed what was normal, it would be easier to pinpoint the abnormal.

So, what was normal?

Well, his head felt like it had been trampled by a herd of angry centaurs. His tongue felt heavy and thick, like he had spent the night licking wool. His mouth tasted like a flobberworm had become stuck between his teeth and died. The sunlight that streamed in from his thin-curtained windows stung his eyes, intensifying the headache and his quickly-souring mood. The temperature was warm enough so that Draco could confidently put the time around noon. He also had an erection. Normal, normal, and normal again. Then what was that feeling? Why did…

And then he heard it. A shuffling in his kitchen. The tap running. A soft, feminine voice. Humming? Yes, certainly humming. Every aching part of him lurched into focus as the events of last night – it had felt like a dream… Had he really drunk so much? – rushed back to him. His security jinxes. The swearing gnome. Granger, Weasley (for fuck's sake!), and two Ministry goons at his door. Her wide, brown eyes and him against a wall in nothing but his underwear, completely at her mercy. Intrusions. A threat. A  _serious_ threat against his parents and, by extension, him. He smacked his forehead with his hand and immediately regretted it. Why had he not grabbed  _trousers_?

He wouldn't make that mistake again. He grabbed the nearest pair and pulled them on, then tugged on a short-sleeved shirt. Wand in hand, he moved slowly and, he thought, silently. He opened the door separating his room and the kitchen, his wand arm extended and pointed at Granger's back. She was at the refrigerator, hunched over slightly to inspect its meager contents. She wore thin, grey sweatpants and a light green t-shirt. Her brown hair was tied into a snarled bun at the nape of her neck.

"It's bad form to cast a spell on someone whose back is turned," she said absently. "I thought you would've remembered that lesson from fourth year."

The hex Draco had been considering died on his tongue, as did any semblance of a witty retort. Hermione finally made her selection and straightened up, turning toward the counter. She held a carton of eggs. Draco didn't even know he'd  _had_  eggs.

"Good morning. Or afternoon, rather," she said, still not looking at him. She opened the carton and inspected its contents closely. "Are these farm fresh?"

Draco shrugged then remembered she wasn't looking at him. "Don't know. Probably from a farm, probably not very fresh."

Hermione frowned and passed her wand over the carton. Two eggshells turned olive green. "Well, that's better than I expected," she sighed. "We'll do some proper grocery shopping later."

She pulled a bowl over to her and, with a flick of her wand, sent two white-shelled eggs flying. They collided with a sharp crack and parted perfectly down the center, plopping into the bowl with their yolks unbroken. "Lunch?" she offered.

The idea of being offered his own food struck Draco as funny, but now was not the time for laughter. Now was the time for action.

"I'm not hungry," he growled, "and I would appreciate it if –"

"Oh, lower your wand," she huffed, interrupting him. "And sit down. I'll make some tea and we can have a chat. You'll probably be more inclined to listen now that you're sober and clothed." She threw him a sideways glance that was strangely probing; Draco fought a blush. "Have a seat."

She gestured him to the table and, thrown thoroughly off kilter, he obeyed. He sat on the edge of the chair, his body tense. His eyes never left Hermione as she bustled about his kitchen.

It was indescribably strange to see her so close and so  _domestic_. She moved around his kitchen as if she had been cooking in it for years. She opened the cabinet that hid the plates on the first try and it only took her two attempts to find the cutlery, which he still had trouble locating after a few drinks. She seemed to know the precise stovetop setting to not overcook the eggs and, within minutes, had them perfectly over-easy, sitting atop a piece of thickly sliced whole meal toast.

She set the plate on the table and took the kettle off the hob just as it started to scream. She brought the tea tray next, set it before him, took her seat, and tucked into her lunch. Draco watched her silently and, at last, seemed to make her the slightest bit uncomfortable. She set down her fork and knife to stare back at him.

It had been four years since Hogwarts. He had barely known her during school. Had known enough about her, of course, to hate her, but hate was not a very complex emotion. It was shallow and vain: two attributes that had come too easily to him back then. Their seventh year changed that, when he saw her writhe in throes of agony upon the Manor's drawing room floor. Bellatrix had mentally flayed her, using pain to strip away the control that defined her. Hermione's screams had been animal, almost inhuman, and when their eyes met as she thrashed, she did not know him.

He was sure it would be permanent, was certain that his mad aunt, who had shown Hermione no mercy, had stolen something irreplaceable from the wizarding world. But their eyes met again as Weasley Apparated her away. Though she was barely conscious, she was there, damaged, but present, and he could feel nothing but relief.

Draco had thought he had the measure of her until his trial three years ago. She not only corroborated Potter's story about his refusal to identify them in front of his father and his aunt, but added to it. She told the Wizengamot, correctly, that he had lied for them at great personal risk and that she was sure, if given the chance to do it over, he would not have acted differently.

As the last part of her statement had been conjecture, the Wizengamot struck it from the official record. But she hadn't said it for the Wizengamot. She had said it for  _him_. Although it was unthinkable, incomprehensible, and damn near impossible, she had forgiven him.

Sometimes, it kept him awake at night. Sometimes, he wondered if he had ever really  _known_  anyone.

"Why are you here?" Draco asked. His wand was still clenched in his left hand.

"I told you last night," she replied. "Malfoy Manor has suffered a string of intrusions that the Ministry thinks are a direct threat. I'm here to ensure your safety."

"Do my parents know it's you?"

"Of course."

"And they  _agreed_?"

Hermione hesitated before pouring herself – and him – a cup of tea. "Well, yes. They didn't ask for me specifically, but I'm who they got."

"How convenient," Draco muttered.

Hermione shrugged and did not meet his eyes. "You could say that. I don't know if anyone but me could have located you faster. You're a difficult man to find."

"Apparently not difficult enough. How did you manage?"

She shrugged again. "Logic, mostly. I knew you were out of Great Britain – no one had seen you anywhere. I thought France might be a good place to look, as your family owns a summer home there, but I figured that would still be too close and too obvious. People may still recognize you and the whole point of your leaving was anonymity, right?" She did not wait for an answer. "So, I thought globally. Asia and Western Europe were out because your family has close connections there. You would stick out like a sore thumb anywhere tropical, which ruled out South America, Africa, and even Australia. The United States was an option, but it struck me as unrealistic. I thought you would want to go somewhere that reminded you of home, which made me think of Canada. Once I had a decent theory, I explained it to Bates, who then contacted the Canadian Ministry and obtained your wand registration and the address you left. I knew you probably wouldn't be at the address, but I checked anyway. A Muggle motel – very subtle."

She shot him a bemused grin, which he did not return. The grin faded and she continued. "I knew you would want to be near a wizarding city. There aren't that many close to Ottawa, but you could have travelled to Quebec or British Columbia just as easily. I'll admit: you stumped me. However, the urgency to find you was growing, so I appealed to Bates for a temporary trace to be put on your wand, and... well…" She gestured around her. "Here I am."

Draco stood up, livid. "You put the Trace on my wand?" He knew registering his wand at the Canadian Ministry would come back to bite him, but it would not do for him to be in the country illegally. Maybe next time he could find a loophole, if there was a next time. At this point, he'd rather risk deportation.

"No, not  _the_  Trace, just  _a_  trace, like the Taboo Voldemort put on his name. It's only temporary, I promise. I called Bates the night I found you and had it lifted. Stop looking so violated."

"I  _have_  been violated, Granger! My privacy, my home –"

"To keep you safe! Merlin, Malfoy, someone is targeting either you or your parents! The British Ministry can't have one of its citizens threatened and possibly killed without even  _trying_  to prevent it."

Draco scowled, though he supposed she was right.

"I think we should discuss how we're going to handle the situation from here."

"How many times do I have to say it, Granger? I do not need your protection. You will not stay here."

"And how many times do I have to say it, Malfoy?" Her voice changed from light and kindly to tightly professional and a bit fed up. "This is not some sort of cruel punishment, although I'm sure it will feel like it soon. Your family has been threatened. Your parents are concerned. I am here on Ministry orders, and I'll be damned if I'm going to fail. Either we go to Wales or you adjust yourself to the idea of me being here. Until the Ministry can catch whoever has been breaking your family's wards, you're stuck with me."

Draco scowled again but said nothing. Stuck with her… A prisoner in his own home. He could have fought her, could have led them both in that same Mobius-strip conversation ultimately leading them nowhere. He could have whined and pouted, maybe even gotten angry.

He could have done all this and more, had he not looked at her.  _Actually_  looked, past his preconceptions and their shared past to the woman beneath. There was a fierceness about her eyes and a determination in the firmness of her lips that made him sit a little straighter. The way she held her head radiated confidence and self-assuredness, which made him confident in turn. She made him feel strange, like he… Like he what? Couldn't help but trust her? Maybe even respected her a little? He scoffed. This is what three years of near solitude could do to a man: make him so lonely that even the most annoying little bint could seem like appealing company.

But it was too late, and he hadn't gotten angry or whined or pouted. Hermione interpreted his silence – correctly, damn her – as acceptance, and she smiled again. She got up to clear her plate and was back in half an instant and a wave of her wand, which had set his sponge to cleaning the dishes.

"Now, regarding the terms of our cohabitation…"

Draco cut her off. "I will set the terms."

He didn't actually  _have_  any yet, but her easy control made him feel powerless, like a rug had been whipped out from beneath him and he was caught in free-fall before the inevitable crash of his body and the planet. He hadn't felt that way since his sixth year and clearly remembered he did not like it one bit. And whose cottage was this, after all? Whose food had she eaten? Whose bed had she slept in? Well, okay, not his  _own_  bed, but certainly a bed that he  _owned_! It was time to take control.

She sat back in her chair and gestured for him to continue.

His eyes narrowed. "You're laughing at me."

"I'm not."

But she was. A small smile played across her lips, and her eyes sparkled with bemusement. Her voice was too light, not quite mocking, but not serious either.

He deserved to be taken seriously. He deserved to be listened to. More than anything, he deserved her respect.

The sting of damaged pride flooded his body, clouding his vision and his senses. He shot to his feet and pointed his wand at her.

It was more of a gesture than a threat, a way to emphasize what he had been going to say, but his words were cut short as his feet left the floor. Her spell knocked him backwards, sending him to the floor, and the hard landing nearly knocked the wind out of him. He gasped as Hermione advanced upon him, her wand leveled at his chest. Her voice was like ice, her eyes unforgiving.

"You shall not pull your wand on me  _ever_  again," she seethed. "To do so will be considered an aggressive attack on a Magical Law Enforcement Officer, and I will take you into custody faster than you can say 'Snitch.' Show me this courtesy, and I will show you the same. But hex me once, Malfoy, just  _once_ , and, so help me Morgana, you'll find yourself in a Welsh prison cell instead of a safe house."

He looked up at her, his own murderous look mirrored in her expressive brown eyes. "Merlin, I hate you," he hissed. He climbed to his feet. She did not offer him a hand.

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear, but let's put our wands away and talk like civilized people, shall we? We need to straighten out a few kinks if this is going to go smoothly."

"In what universe could this ever go smoothly?"

"The one in which you stop acting like a prat and make an effort."

"So the same one in which you're not an annoying, know-it-all, swotty little Mu…"

Another silent whoosh, but this time it was not a spell that hit him. It was her palm. His cheek stung where the blow had landed, and Draco felt not the white-hot, all-consuming anger he had expected, but a sudden release, like something within him had snapped. Getting angry no longer seemed worth the trouble.

"Do not say that word," she whispered hoarsely.

"Muggle-born," he finished evenly. He surveyed her with unnerving calm, noting her shining eyes and quivering shoulders. His brow furrowed as she lifted her chin and straightened her back. Pride – a vice with which he was all too familiar. He would not be getting an apology from her any time soon.

He headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked him. Her voice sounded thick and a little hoarse. For some reason, Draco did not want to see the expression that complemented the tone.

"Out."

"But your safety, it could –"

Draco did not hear what his safety could be, as he had already slammed the door. He walked, turned right past a row of hedges, and broke into a light jog until he reached the edge of a thin patch of woods. Several paths ran through the trees and Draco chose his favorite, a winding trail about a foot wide. He walked slowly and kept his head down, staring at the path to make sure he didn't twist his ankle on an upraised root. He took a breath of warm, summer air and held it in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling in a rush.

He hadn't handled that well. Not well at all. Granger was the first familiar face he had seen in three years and had been nothing but kind to him ever since she arrived. Pushy, but kind. She hadtreated him politely, offered to cook him lunch, even smiled at him.

And how had he treated her? Like she was still the bane of his existence. Like they were still at school and he had to prove that he was superior, even though no one but him had ever cared. Like the assignment to "protect" him was her choice and not an order. Like she was going to ruin his life.

Like she  _could_  ruin his life. He'd already done a fair job of it, hadn't he? Throwing in with Voldemort when he was barely old enough to understand what that meant. Clinging to antiquated notions of blood purity that almost got him and his family killed and had successfully killed one of his closest friends. Running away from the life the Golden Trio had returned to him because the process of rebuilding was too daunting to consider.

Draco liked to think he had changed since school, but his confrontation with Hermione weakened that argument until it was no stronger than parchment. She was an adult, a confident and competent woman, and he was still a boy whinging until he got his way. His cheek prickled unpleasantly and Draco groaned, feeling ashamed.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperate to sort out his thoughts. Granger and Weasley… Fuck. No, forget Weasley. The ginger was back in London right now, probably pouting to Potter and concocting some half-baked plan to get Draco arrested for kidnapping. Until that happened, Weasley wasn't his problem.

His problem was Hermione Granger, who had arrived on his doorstep late last night on orders to safeguard him against some psychotic threat. She had treated him with civility, except for two hexes and a slap, all of which had happened only after he had made an arse of himself.

There was something else he knew, too, but was even less thrilled to admit: he was glad to see her.

Perhaps glad was not the best word, but he couldn't think of another that fit as nicely. Living in isolation was much lonelier than Draco had imagined. Occasionally, he missed the whimsy of Diagon Alley and the simplicity of Hogsmeade. He missed his parents, the Manor, and even the ruddy peacocks that woke him up far too early in the morning. He missed his own kind and having one arrive unexpectedly on his doorstep was a nice change of pace, even if it was Granger.

Yet he could not lose sight of what was important. Someone was trying to get to him and/or his parents. His family had plenty of enemies – some of them even  _were_  family – but most were in Azkaban with no hope of release. Whoever was threatening him had to be considered carefully, especially if he or she had avoided detection for this long.

He looked up and knew by the shade of the trees that he was nearly back where he had started. It was a good thing, too, because he was properly hungry now and a little more willing to listen. He knew what he had to do and, even though it required him to swallow his considerable pride, he would do it. He just hoped he hadn't mucked things up with Granger too thoroughly. He smiled wryly: with his luck, she was probably halfway to Britain.

Hermione was not halfway to Britain. She was not even a quarter of the way. In fact, she had not moved from where she had eaten lunch. Draco hesitated, observing her through the window. She held a mug in both her hands and stared blankly at its contents. She looked thoughtful, troubled. He supposed it was his fault. It was always his fault. The rueful thought made his jaw clench. He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. It was time to change that.

He opened the door and the spell over Hermione broke. She looked up at him, her fingers tightening around the mug. Draco thought he recognized relief wash over her face.

"Listen, Malfoy, I'm…"

"Shut it, Granger," he said sharply, holding up a hand to silence her. He was not going to let her beat him at apologizing, too. "This morning was difficult for me. I've been alone going on three years, and I'm not accustomed to receiving witches on my doorstep in the middle of the night. The news you brought did not help. I want… I would like to apologize for my behavior." She looked surprised, insultingly so, but he stamped out the bud of annoyance it caused. "You are here as a professional. I, in turn, will do my best to act accordingly."

"Thank you, Draco," she said softly.

His heart skipped at the sound of his first name; it was his turn to be surprised.

"I acted rashly this morning. And last night. I shouldn't have assumed your hospitality or your acceptance. I did both. I owe you an apology as well."

Their eyes met and a tendril of understanding passed between them. Draco breathed out slowly and took a seat at the table.

"So… may I stay here?"

Draco laughed and shook his head. "A little late for that, I think."

"Wales is still an option."

"No, it isn't."

She dared a smile. "I had to give you the chance to change your mind. You really would be much safer there."

He rolled his eyes. "Get it out of your head, Granger. Wales isn't going to happen."

"No, heaven forbid you make things easy on us."

He chuckled at her teasing and tried not to consider how much he enjoyed it. "Regarding these terms…"

"Ah, yes." Hermione flicked her wand and several rolls of parchment appeared on the table. She passed him the first stack, which was eleven inches long. Neat, tiny writing covered both the front and back.

"My alibi," she stated, somewhat proudly. "You should read through it, obviously, but I haven't changed much. My name is Jean Grainer and we're school mates. I've come to visit you on holiday. Unmarried, government job, enjoys reading and cooking. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, except for a few key points."

"A  _few_  key points? Seems rather large, what you're leaving out."

Hermione shifted in her chair. "It doesn't need to be too thorough if it's Muggles we're fooling, does it? I'm not saying they aren't bright, but they don't have access to the kind of documentation they would require to prove I'm not who I say I am. The rest is just details. I suggest you memorize them today in case we encounter your neighbors."

Draco glanced through her alibi. All  _twenty-two_  inches of it. Memorize it today? Hell, he had not even studied Arithmancy until the night before. He forced a smile and set the scroll aside. He would make a show of reading it, fine, but he would let her do the talking if – Circe forbid – they met his neighbors. He laced his fingers together and looked up at her, trying to look innocent.

"Also, I think we should call each other by our first names."

Draco looked askance at her. "Do you?"

"We're supposed to be old friends,  _Draco_ ," she emphasized, not unkindly. "We've known each other for over ten years. We're both adults. I think a first-name basis would really help us foster a cohesive working relationship. I've read several studies which –"

"Very well, very well," Draco interrupted. "Spare me the lecture."

She looked put out, like the lecture was her favorite part of this whole ordeal.

"With your permission," she continued, "I would like to place a few wards on the house."

"It's already warded." He glanced at his gnome, whose shifty eyes met Draco's for just a moment before flitting away. "I reset them every day."

"A few more couldn't hurt. And these are Ministry-approved – the strongest we know."

"What will they do?"

"Well, the Ministry's position on home protection is prevention. I would like to cast two: one alarm and one blockade."

"You can't mean to tell me that the strongest wards you can use don't even inflict  _pain_?"

"An innocent wizard could wander into the field. Offensive wards are ethically questionable."

"Murder isn't?"

"We don't know if the goal is murder. The truth is that this needs to get done regardless of your answer."

"Then what's the point of even asking?"

"Full disclosure."

"Bloody bureaucrats."

"The world we live in," she said with a sigh. She handed him a piece of parchment and a travel-sized, pre-inked quill. "Read this through, then initial here, here, and here. Sign and date the bottom." She cast while he read, a process that took no more than five minutes.

"All right, the boundaries are simple: the house, obviously, and the front and back gardens, extending to and encompassing the deck."

"Why not just ward the beach while you're at it?"

"That's public land and would require a different permit. I know, I know," she said testily as he gave her an annoyed look. "Bureaucrats. But if any magical being crosses those wards, we'll know. You should recast your wards, too, just to be thorough."

He did as she said and set his wand back down. "That had better be all."

She looked a little hesitant as she clutched a small roll of parchment rather close to her chest. "I didn't know how long you'd be out, so I took the liberty of drawing up a tentative code of conduct for us both."

Draco frowned. Hermione had good reason to look nervous. If there was one thing he did not like, it was being humiliated. Another was being expected to follow orders. She was perilously close to doing both within a few hours of each other. He was about to say as much when she went on, suddenly shoving the roll onto his folded hands.

"I have the section headings – Magic, Household, and Recreation – and subheadings explaining the scope of each," she explained as he took the scrolls. "The rules are under those, with a brief explanations, if necessary, and exceptions to those rules, also explained. All of this is open to amendment, which I suggest we do now."

Draco goggled at the list. Was this what Potter and Weasley had to put up with for six years? He thought he must have gone mad as a small wave of pity rolled over him. Nonetheless, he agreed and read over the first heading.

To his great surprise, this heading was the shortest one, only spanning a quarter of the page. Even more surprising were the terms laid out therein.

"Am I reading this correctly, Granger?" he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. " _No_  magic?"

"Your comprehensive abilities seem to have withstood your stint of isolation, Malfoy," she said far too brightly. "Rest assured: you read correctly."

"And why, pray, am I to be stripped of the only thing that still gives me joy?"

She looked taken aback by his candor. "Not stripped of it, necessarily, just temporarily prohibited from using it. I'm not going to, either. It's not a punishment," she added quickly, no doubt in response to the fierce glare he sent her. "It's a precaution. Bates knows that whoever wants you –"

" _If_  they want me."

"– will eventually come searching for you if getting to your parents doesn't work. He thinks it best that you maintain a low profile so as not to draw attention to yourself. I agree with him."

"Don't you think that the fact that my cottage is warded is a dead giveaway of wizarding presence?"

"It would be, but I've made your wards Undetectable. We've eliminated that risk."

Draco was taken aback for a moment. He had not considered making his wards Undetectable. Hadn't actually considered it to be possible, to be honest. Time for attack number two.

"What if this stranger comes to call and I'm unarmed? Should I just let him kill me? Perhaps I should paint a large target on my chest now and have done with it?"

Her expression soured, as if maybe it would not be a bad idea. "Perhaps your powers of perception are altered. Obviously you missed exception number one."

Draco glanced back down at the paper and read.

**One: Wands are to be carried on your person and concealed at all times when venturing beyond the wards. No exceptions.**

He glowered at her. "Say we're indoors and my wards break. What –"

"Number two, Malfoy!" she scolded in exasperation.

**Two: Wands are to be easily accessible when indoors. Neither party is to hide, steal, or otherwise handle a wand which is not his or her own, unless it is to aid the other party in obtaining his or her own wand. Wand location to be decided upon as a unit.**

"Not on my person but nearby?"

Hermione nodded. "Shouldn't be too hard to manage, as this place is rather tiny. I think the table should do nicely."

"We're just going to set them there? But what will the neighbors think?" he mocked.

"Oh, you are such a prat." With a flick of her wand, his cupboard opened and a glass came hurtling at them. She caught it expertly and set it on the table. With a complicated hand motion, the glass shimmered and grew, twisting upward into an elegant vase. With another wave, she conjured a bouquet of everlasting flowers and lowered them into the vase. She looked around her and spotted a collection of weathered glass lying on a shelf near his fireplace.

"May I?"

Draco gestured helplessly; by now, he knew she would do what she wanted regardless of whether or not she had permission. Several pieces flew toward them and landed in the vase. Another complicated wave melded the motley pieces together, then apart, forming separate green-tinted glass balls that acted as a stabilizer for the flowers.

"Hawthorn, correct?"

He looked at her, confused.

"Your wand," she prompted. "It's hawthorn?"

"Yes," he said, and she nodded, looking infuriatingly pleased with herself. A few more waves produced elegant looking pieces of wood that implanted themselves in the bed of glass beads.

"This should do quite nicely then!" She stuck her wand tip-side down into the vase and leaned back to survey the effect. Draco had to admit that it looked quite natural. He could tell the difference between her wand and the branch of ornamental vine, but only just. It would definitely fool a Muggle. He could feel her eyes on him, gauging him for a reaction. He kept his face impassive and bit back a smirk when he saw her pleased expression falter. It was a clever idea and a nice bit of magic, but there was no reason she needed to know it.

"I take it you didn't bother reading exception three?" she deadpanned, making the question sound more like a statement.

Of course he hadn't.

**Three: Neither party is to cast a spell – friendly or unfriendly – upon the other party unless expressly permitted to do so. In the case of outside attack, parties are permitted to cast protective and defensive enchantments as long as neither proves to be detrimental to the cast-upon party.**

"Merlin, you really do work for the Ministry, Granger," Draco mumbled. "Party this, permitted that… I'm surprised I haven't stumbled across a  _wherein_  yet."

Her cheeks flushed. "There's one under heading two," she admitted.

Draco rolled his eyes and continued reading. He stopped after each section to ask her about each exception, all of which he had read but about which he feigned ignorance. She grew more frustrated with each question, referring him sharply to which clause it was under and sometimes just reciting the sentence verbatim for him. It was immeasurably fun to aggravate her and resulted in their discussion lasting over two hours.

The rest of the contract was relatively simple. Under the "Household" heading were laid out rules concerning sleeping arrangements (separate), kitchen responsibilities (separate except for dinnertime, when they would trade off cooking meals), common area use (keep things separated), and facilities (dear Merlin,  _separate_ ). To say Draco noticed a theme would have been redundant.

The "Recreation" heading – and this was one that Draco read fully, it being only a paragraph long – was infuriating.

"The Ministry may be able to place my parents under house arrest, Granger," he snarled, "but they're well out of their rights to try it on me."

"It's not house arrest. It's a preventative measure. It's dangerous to move beyond the wards."

"For whom?"

She gave him a withering look. "The Ministry is not just trying to cover its arse with this, Draco."

"At least you admit it."

"Look, whatever you may think, they have your best interests in mind. You're  _valuable_. You're  _important_."

"Worth more alive than dead for once."

She glared at him. "You're being melodramatic. It'll just be for a few weeks, then you'll have all your freedoms back again."

"Bollocks. A few weeks? Do you have any leads on a suspect?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information."

"Government-speak for  _no_."

She frowned and was about to argue, but he cut her off before she could utter a syllable.

"I cannot be confined to my own thrice-damned house with  _you_  for Merlin knows how long and expect to come out of it sane. And how are we expected to shop?"

"The Ministry –"

"And won't it look a little suspicious, me staying indoors? The neighbors" – who rarely visited, but that was another piece of information she didn't need – "will start to worry. Then if they see you – a guest! – who is supposedly" – he glanced down at her alibi, carelessly flipping it over – " _on holiday_ … A holiday  _indoors_  when there's a beach and a tourist town nearby? If that doesn't raise eyebrows…"

He leveled a "you-know-I'm-right" expression at her and she sat back, looking torn.

"It's risky. Every time you venture out is an opening. You could be spotted and attacked."

"In the middle of the day? I'd say that's unlikely."

She pursed her lips. "But not impossible."

"We'll be armed. Provision one, remember?"

"That's a worst-case scenario."

"You and I trapped together is a worst-case scenario."

Her frown deepened; he was almost there.

"Your alibi needs protecting just as much as I allegedly do, and by the end of the first week, we'll both need out of this place if we want to keep this contract sealed. Daytime trips only and never for more than two hours. We'll even take my gremlin, so we'll know if the wards are broken."

Hermione raised an eyebrow but did not inquire further about his gremlin. She was silent for a while, then sighed. "Very well. Grocery shopping once per week, less if we can manage it. You can take me into town  _once_  for souvenirs."

"Twice," he amended. "Social decorum dictates dinner at the local pub." Moreover, he enjoyed their hamburgers.

"Once," she shot right back. "We'll combine it with the souvenirs."

"Can't. Two-hour time limit."

She swore quietly. "Fine. Twice, but no more. I don't care how spare you go. And the beach, hmm… every other day, perhaps?"

Draco balked. "Absolutely not. We don't have to do every bloody thing together."

She quirked an eyebrow and grinned lopsidedly. "Shy, Malfoy? I never would have guessed."

"You guessed wrong," he said acidly. He glared, but felt a tinge of color creep into his cheeks. He was neither shy nor ashamed of how he looked in his swim trunks. He looked damn good in them, actually. No, Draco's was a different problem, and it was two-fold.

The first issue was that he enjoyed swimming quite a bit. The way his body cut through the water made him feel powerful. The feeling of it flowing through his hair and across his back made him feel exquisitely sexual. The expanse of the Great Lake made him feel infinite and free. It was a private time for him, an intimate time. He did not want to feel like that around her, and that reason was the second part of his problem. Despite all of Hermione's short-comings, which were many and most likely immutable, she had one attribute that had the potential to override every flaw he could think of.

She was female.

Normally, this would not have been an issue. Draco was used to females, had interacted with them all the time at Hogwarts, and even known one in a more carnal nature. But he had not had sex in going on three years, which was as far away from normal as Draco cared to venture. So, despite that fact that she was Hermione "Infuriating" Granger, that she held no esteem for him and probably never would, and that he was about as interested in her personality as he was in cuddling up to a Blast-Ended Skrewt, she had power over him. Hadn't she already inserted herself into his fantasy? Unbidden, of course, and much to his displeasure, but present just the same.

And she was fit. Any idiot could see that. Her hair was still a riotous mess, but her eyes were a lovely shade of brown. Her skin looked soft and just begged to be sun-kissed. He imagined freckles dotting her nose and cheeks and barely stopped himself from staring. Her lips were full, her breasts were perky, her hips were absolutely perfect, and that rear… Draco remembered her bending over to get the eggs out of the refrigerator and felt an unwelcome stirring in his groin.

He moaned softly and put his head in his hands. He was ill. He was  _mental_.  _Seriously_  mental if he could think of Hermione Granger with adjectives other than "swot," "know-it-all," and their synonyms. Merlin help him.

"Um, Draco?" she asked tentatively. He drew a deep breath and sighed, raising his eyes but not meeting hers. "You said yourself that not going to the beach would be suspicious. However much I wish this didn't make complete sense to me…" She sighed and rubbed her own forehead. "We're just going to have to do it, bathing suits and all."

She made it sound like a vaccination. He scowled and folded his arms over his chest, disliking that she was right and not looking forward to making a fool out of himself.

"I think that about sums it up." She scribbled the final provisions onto the parchment and looked up at him expectantly. "Unless there was anything you wanted to add."

Oh, the things he wanted to add. Granger must remain fully clothed at all times, preferably in lurid, shapeless dresses. Granger must stay a minimum of three yards away from him. Granger must not look at him and smile.

"No," is what he replied instead.

She nodded. "Good. I'll put a light stinging jinx on the agreement. Incentive for both of us to follow the rules."

"Fine."

She pointed her wand at the contract. It glowed orange for a moment, then returned to normal.

"Now we just need to sign it. Once we put quill to parchment, no more magic and no more amendments."

She picked up her quill and poised it over the paper.

"Wait."

Hermione stopped and looked up at him from beneath dark lashes.

He cleared his throat. "When does this contract break?"

"Oh." She drew the quill away and leaned back in the chair. "When do you think it should break?"

The question caught Draco off guard. He thought about it for a long moment.

"In the event of an attack," he said finally, "assuming we both make it out alive. Then we'll re-work and re-sign the agreement. Or if we leave the country. I can't see this cohabitation agreement making much sense back home. Obviously, if the threat is neutralized and your assignment ends."

"Fair points." She jotted down his suggestions. "Anything else?"

Draco shook his head.

"All right then."

She signed the agreement and passed it and the quill over to him. He considered each for a moment.

Seven years ago, he had imagined his life going very differently, with a well-matched marriage and the opportunity to forge his legacy in the Malfoy family. Four years ago, he had imagined a life away from the public eye and living a long, lonely existence separate from the people who knew him best. Yesterday, Hermione Granger arrived on his doorstop, and today he was agreeing to live with her.

As far as Draco was concerned, Kneazles had flown, the Manor had been overrun by trolls, and Hagrid had received a position on the Wizengamot. The impossible had happened, and he could not even begin to fathom what would happen tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**June 1**

Draco fully expected to pass the day in awkward and tense silence, but the opposite greeted him when he made his way into the kitchen that morning. Hermione was awake and had either showered or swum. Her hair hung around her face, her usually untameable curls stretched into damp waves that hung past her shoulders. He was not used to seeing her so discomposed and averted his gaze, feeling like he had accidentally seen something private.

"Good morning, Draco," she said brightly. "I hope you didn't have anything planned for the day. We need to shop."

'We need to shop' are four words no bloke ever wants to hear, especially upon waking and  _especially_ if that bloke is not a morning person.

Draco was not a morning person.

He tamped his snarl down into a yawn-and-glare combination. "Breakfast," he grunted. "A shower. Then we can do all the bloody shopping you want."

She nodded, apparently satisfied with his conditions, and headed outside to take her breakfast – toast and jam – on the deck, which overlooked the lake. Draco unleashed his snarl.  _H_ _e_ took breakfast on the deck.  _Alone_. Was he constantly going to have to rearrange his life to accommodate her? Or maybe he would just have to wake up earlier. He could always join her, but that would mean he willingly chose to be near her when there were other options available.

With a frown, he poured himself a glass of orange juice – a poor substitute for pumpkin, in his opinion – and toasted two pieces of bread. He reached for the jam and then remembered that she had used it, too. He cursed. He had been close to scraping the bottom of the jam jar for a week now, but had put off grocery shopping for no better reason than laziness. And now he would have to eat dry toast.

"I hate dry toast," he muttered to himself, opening the jar to rinse it out so that it could be recycled. "And I hate –" The next word died on his lips as he looked into the jar.

It wasn't empty. A portion of the sweet, strawberry preserve sat at the bottom, waiting for him. It looked like just enough to cover two pieces of toast. Draco knew without a doubt that Hermione had considered him.

Damn her. Even when he was determined to hate her, just for a morning, she undermined him. He spread the jam on his toast and sat at the kitchen table, glaring out at her and the lake, wondering why his breakfast tasted so bitter.

He took his time in the shower. By the time he changed into fresh clothes, Hermione had come in from her breakfast, cleaned her dishes, and constructed a grocery list. She had also changed into a t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts that showed an unhealthy amount of thigh. Her hair was drawn back into a thick ponytail.

"I don't know what you normally eat," she said before Draco could look from her legs to the list in her hands, "so I just put down the basics. Fruit, vegetables, milk... That sort of thing. Also, for my nights, I want to make spaghetti and meatballs – my mum's recipe – and the other night I was thinking Greek, maybe a spinach and cheese pie, or lamb if they have it. I've never made kebabs before, but how hard could they be? We'll have leftovers for lunch, and when we're sick of those, I thought cold cuts and cheese for sandwiches." She paused and looked at him expectantly. Draco knew what she wanted, but had no intention of giving it to her that easily. "What were you thinking?" she finally prompted.

"Barbecue," he said simply.

Upon acquiring his cottage three years ago, Draco discovered an old charcoal grill in his shed. At the time, he'd had no idea what the thing was, but a few complex spells revealed its function to him piecemeal. The first time he used it, for example, he didn't have charcoal to sustain the fire. He'd used his wand instead, but the flame was too hot and he spent ten minutes shaving off the charred outer layer before suffering through the chewy, overcooked steak beneath. The second time, he used charcoal, but couldn't get it lit, and his third attempt – with lighter fluid this time – nearly cost him his eyebrows. Once he acquired all the proper tools, however, and learned by trial and error about heat distribution, he became somewhat of a proficient. A grill master, some might say.

He left his answer at that and snatched the list. He slipped on a pair of sandals – Flip-flips? Flop-flips? Flimsy fucking footwear? Muggle footwear he picked up at one of the local shops – grabbed his car keys off the hook, and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Hermione said. "Your wand. Hold on a moment."

He paused as she disappeared into her room and came out with a hand-tooled leather holster.

"This is for you, compliments of the Ministry," she said, setting it on the table.

"Where's yours?"

She held up her right arm and smiled. Draco glanced to the vase and noticed that only one decorative vine stalk remained. He looked at her arm again.

"It's bare," he stated.

Her smile grew wider and annoyance spread through him like slow-moving poison. "Put it on," she cajoled. "See what happens."

He glared, but did as she said. The holster was smooth and warm against his skin, and the fit adjusted automatically. The holster was snug against his arm, but not uncomfortable. It was also plainly visible. Draco looked a question at her.

"Your wand," she prompted. "Handle-end first." He grabbed it from the vase and loaded the holster. His wand locked into place with a quiet click and, to his great surprise, the dark leather disappeared. He ran his fingers along the holster. The leather was markedly warmer and emitted a very subtle vibration. The view of his left forearm and his Dark Mark was unobstructed. He frowned, as he always did when he saw his Mark. At least it didn't have any meaning in the Muggle world. To them, it was just a tattoo, not a permanent reminder of attempted genocide.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Hermione asked, her voice alight with excitement. "They're new. Research and Development finished the prototypes just last year. This is one of their first field trials. Hopefully they'll hold up as well as they did in testing. To unload it, all you have to do is flick your wrist." She demonstrated the sharp, quick motion – a combination of a spin and a snap. Her wand appeared in her hand and the holster became visible again. "Give it a few tries. It takes some getting used to."

The first few flicks elicited no response, but on his fourth try, his wand shot out of the holster. He was so surprised that he failed to close his hand in time. The hawthorn shaft clattered to the floor, emitting a few red sparks in response to the poor treatment. He reloaded and tried again, this time catching the wand. It landed in just the right place in his palm and didn't require any adjustment before use. It was quite a brilliant invention.

Hermione nodded, satisfied. "I think you're ready." As she snatched her purse from her bedroom, she was ready too, and followed Draco to his car.

The car was an old, two-seater truck, faded red and eaten through with rust at the front and back bumpers, door bottoms, and wheel hubs. Hermione missed a step when she saw it.

"It came with the place," he said evenly, if a bit coldly.

The truck wasn't nearly as wonderful as a broom, but it got him from Point A to Point B reliably enough and was easy to maintain. He'd even grown a little fond of the metal heap. He unlocked the driver's side door with his key and turned to watch Hermione. Her mouth dropped into a perfect "O" as she reached for the door handle. Draco savored a secret smile: there  _wasn't_  a door handle on the passenger side. Her brow furrowed. She looked at him through the dirty window for assistance. He reached over and rolled it down using the manual crank.

"You'll have to sit in the boot, I'm afraid."

He gestured with a jerk of his head toward the rear of the truck and watched her expression with amusement. The bed of the truck was in a state of nearly unusable disrepair. The metal sheet that served as the base was close to rusting through in some places and the half-door that stopped the contents of the bed from sliding onto the road was completely missing. Draco had replaced it with a cedar board. It held fine when groceries slid into it, but anything bigger than a few bags, like a young witch, for instance... Well, he wasn't going to make any promises. He nearly laughed aloud when Hermione realized this.

She frowned and glared at him, as if he had purposely ruined his automobile. "I'm not riding back there. I'll end up on the road."

"Climb through the window, then?"

She turned her critical eyes to the truck, took a few steps back, and shook her head. "Not going to work. My legs are hardly long enough to step  _into_  this thing with any sense of decency."

"Oh, what a pity," Draco teased in a voice that was not as unkind as it once would have been. "Looks like you'll have to stay behind."

"Unlikely." She stared at the truck a moment longer. The fingers of her right hand twitched, and Draco was momentarily worried she would blast the door right off its rusty hinges. She seemed to think better of it and sighed. "There's nothing else for it. Budge over, Draco. I'll climb in on your side."

Draco sighed, too. He had known it would come to this, but if there was even a small chance to remove himself from her distracting presence, he would take it. He slid out of the driver's seat and stood aside as she clambered in. Draco watched intently as Hermione lifted her leg higher than usual to make the first step. Her legs might not have been long, but they were certainly beautiful, smooth and well shaped with the perfect ratio of muscle to fat. A little pale, perhaps, but who was he to judge?

She hefted herself upward, bringing her rear end close to eye-level. Draco felt a sudden swooping sensation in his stomach. The feeling raced its way to his brain and, before he could control himself, brought to mind an image of her getting into his truck while wearing a snug, short, and very un-Granger-y skirt. Everything tightened and he felt a moment of absolute panic.

"Coming?" Her voice tore him from his ever-worsening daydream and he entered the cab without looking at her. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it violently. The engine whined and sputtered in protest. Hermione looked askance at him. Gathering his patience, Draco tried again. On the third try, the engine turned over with a loud grumble. With a jolt, he forced the monstrous truck into gear and slowly rumbled out of his gravel drive.

He handled the sharp turns of the unpaved path that led to the highway carefully. He had learned early on that the truck was dependable, but its high axle, maladjusted suspension, and steel body made it top-heavy. If he took a corner too fast, it was prone to tip right over. It had happened to him only once, but once was enough. He had righted the truck with the help of his wand – luckily for him it had been nighttime – and had proceeded around the bends with caution ever since.

"Where did you learn to drive?" Hermione asked once they reached the relative safety of the mostly straight highway.

"Self-taught," he said, not taking his eyes from the road. "Saw the license of a bloke at the pub. Bit of an ordeal to keep my wand hidden, but I managed to make a copy and then seal my information onto it." She huffed and was about to launch into a tirade about the illegality of the act, he was sure, but he cut her off. "I wanted to stay unnoticed, Granger, and taking driving lessons would not have helped with that. Besides, I practiced at night. No one was injured and I get along well enough now." He doubted he would ever be truly comfortable behind the wheel, but it was as much as he needed.

They passed the fifteen-minute drive to town in silence. Hermione stared out of the window, occasionally fiddling with her green canvas purse or reading over the incomplete grocery list in her hands. Draco saw her fidgeting out of the corner of his eye and wondered if she had always been so restless. It would make sense. She was one of the most efficient people in Hogwarts and, having been around layabouts like Potter and Weasley for years, was probably used to pulling more than her share. He smiled wryly: holidays must be quite a trial for people who can't relax properly.

Of course, this wasn't a real holiday. Hermione was on a mission because someone was trying to get to him or his family. That was what was making her twitchy. He couldn't forget it.

On the outskirts of the city proper was the grocery store. Draco maneuvered into a parking spot, forced the old transmission into 'park,' and sidled out of the seat. He held the door as Hermione followed him, keeping his eyes away from her legs. She led the way into the store and grabbed a cart, handing the list to him. Then she paused, assessing the store's layout and planning her strategy.

"All right, produce first, it seems, then we'll work aisle by aisle. Meat is in the back, I'm guessing?"

Draco nodded.

"Excellent. Don't forget to consult the list. We won't be driving all the way back just for tomato paste."

He followed her dutifully and read off the first few items. "Spinach, onions, apples, carrots, and grapes."

"All right, you grab the carrots and the grapes – I prefer red, but I'll eat green if you like those better – and I'll get the spinach and onions and start looking at the apples." She broke off from him, heading for the spinach, as he watched her, dumbfounded. She had been always been bossy, but he wasn't accustomed to being on the receiving end. It was something he would need to change about her, but now did not seem the time: her no-nonsense tone did not allow questions, and Draco was not fond of public rows.

He ambled around the empty produce section, gathering a bag of red grapes, baby carrots, and four ears of yellow corn as he went. He met her back at the trolley and set his items next to the spinach. Hermione was looking at the apples and, it seemed, interrogating each one. She would pick one up, turn it over twice, shake her head, and put it back. This happened five times before one fruit made it into the bag.

"Granger –"

"Jean," she corrected mildly. He ignored her.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"Picking out apples," she said, never taking her eyes away from her task. She smiled as she found another, which she placed gently beside the first.

"Why does it take you three minutes to find one? Just pick five and be done with it. They're all the same."

She paused and looked at him aghast. "What if they're bruised?"

"Just eat around that bit, or through it. It won't kill you."

Hermione pulled a face and went back to her inspections. "There's nothing worse than biting into a soft apple when it's supposed to be crisp. If you want to eat the bruised bits, that's your choice, but I will not start the habit of eating mishandled fruit. What's next: overripe bananas?" She shook her head and laughed. "That's a slippery slope."

He gaped at her. "Slippery slope? It's fruit!"

"But it's my fruit, Draco." She smiled as she located the last, perfect apple and tied the bag.

To his dismay, it was not only fruit quality that concerned Hermione. It was  _everything_. She comparison shopped, looking at prices to see what saved her the most coin. She read labels, peering at the ingredients and holding tins of tomatoes side by side to compare nutritional information. It took ages to move down one aisle and, by aisle three, Draco was beside himself with impatience. When he shopped, he grabbed the first item off the shelf that suited his purpose. He never read labels, couldn't care less about nutrition, and couldn't stand to quibble over a toonie or two when it came to checkout. He was in and out in thirty minutes or less every time.

It had to have been over an hour now, he was sure. Draco leaned heavily on the cart, staring at her while she compared two kinds of pasta.

"Granger. Granger. Granger. Granger."

She said nothing, but shot him a glare that meant, 'Call me Granger one more time and, stinging hex be damned, you'll lose a limb,' and went back to her pasta.

" _Jean_ ," he said, drawing out the vowels. "I'm never taking you to the grocer's again. We've been in here an hour now and the cart isn't even half full."

"It's been fifteen minutes and you should be grateful I didn't find your circular. Then I'd be fussing over coupons as well." She set a box of whole-wheat spaghetti into the cart and moved along.

The idea made Draco queasy. "I just wasn't expecting to waste half my day indoors," he muttered sourly. A mother and child passed them by, the child trailing calmly behind his mother.

"Will you stop whinging if I give you a sweet, Draco?" Hermione pondered, throwing him a pointed look. "It's worked well on that toddler." He glared and brushed past her with the cart. He could  _feel_  her smirk.

They didn't need anything down aisle four, but they walked down it anyway as it put them out at the butchery section. Hermione set him to picking out whatever grill items he needed as she went to the counter to inquire about their ground beef selection. Draco selected some packaged chicken breast and a bag of charcoal and was at the cart in less than a minute. Hermione laughed at something the butcher said and he saw the old man's eyes light up. He handed over her order and she turned back to Draco, remnants of laughter lingering on her lips and in her eyes. His stomach gave a funny lurch as their gazes met.

"Only three aisles left," he sighed dramatically.

"Oh, shut it," she muttered and led on.

In all, their shopping trip took forty-five minutes, which, Hermione pointed out tersely, was significantly  _less_  than half of the day. Draco replaced the cedar plank so their groceries wouldn't fall out of the truck while Hermione sidled across the driver's seat.

"It may only have been forty-five minutes, but it felt like an eternity." He slammed the door and shoved the key into the ignition. "It almost would have been worth being attacked – would've made the trip much more exciting."

Hermione slammed her hand against the dash, startling him into stillness. "That's it! You're being a complete prat! I'm sorry that shopping with me is such a  _trial_  for you, but you're going to have to get used to it! Just like you're going to have to get used to me taking breakfast on the deck and sitting in your favorite chair and using your bloody towels!"

Her eyes snapped away from him. Draco expected to feel angry, but in its stead was the weird, tired feeling from yesterday. Guilt?

He looked away from her. The engine turned over on the second try this time and they rumbled back to the cottage in an uneasy silence. Silence – even the uneasy ones – usually didn't bother him, but this one was different. This one felt wrong.

"Hermione..."

" _Jean_ , Draco! Call me  _Jean_! Merlin's pants, why are you so intent on ruining this for me?"

Draco grimaced. An argument was better than nothing, he supposed.

"Ruining it for  _you_? More like ruining it for me! You're temporary, Granger. Once your Ministry withdraws the broom from its arsehole and realizes that I'm not in any danger and that talent like yours is so  _obviously_  wasted on scum like me, you're gone! But I have to keep living here! I have to deal with the kinks you've already put into my routine!"

"Like I'm finding this easy," she snapped. "We've already been through this. Neither of us is happy, but we have to try, and it's only been a day, but I  _have_  tried! I've made an effort to be accommodating and to stay out of your way, as you obviously don't want anything to do with me. And what have you done? Ignored me. Well, that's fine, I don't mind it. But the one thing we  _do_ have to do together is a complete disaster –"

"Well, I wouldn't say  _complete_..." he muttered. They had got everything on the list, after all.

"We can't spend an hour together without getting on each other's nerves. I knew when I volunteered for this assignment that it was going to be a challenge, but I thought that with your life in danger and your parents being threatened, you might take this seriously."

That stung. "I am taking it seriously!"

"Then prove it! I'm supposed to be on holiday, and we're supposed to be old friends. Start acting like it."

She crossed her arms and sat back against the passenger seat, staring angrily out the front window. Draco glared out at the road, then glanced at the speedometer; he was over the limit. He eased off the accelerator and let the truck coast. The engine wheezed its appreciation. As the truck lost speed, Draco's anger dissipated.

"Despite how it may seem, I am trying," he said quietly. "This isn't… This isn't easy for me."

Hermione made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

"I care very deeply for the lives of my parents."

"I know you do," she said quietly, her tone apologetic. Draco did not make her say it. He could tell she was still upset, though not as thoroughly as before, and tried for a subject change.

"I thought you said this mission was given to you. Now you volunteered for it?"

"Doesn't matter," she snapped.

Draco stole a look at her and smirked. He would leave it alone for now, but there was definitely more to  _that_  question than she was telling him. For today, however, it looked as if she would continue speaking to him. He wasn't sure if it was a gift or a curse, but it was infinitely better than angry silence or fighting.

He realized the moment they started unpacking the groceries that it might have been a curse.

"You shouldn't keep the meat and cheese in the door shelves. The door is warmer than the rest of the refrigerator, so the food will spoil faster if you leave it there. Must we put the bread in that cupboard? It's above the stove and I can hardly reach it. I don't want to bother you every time I want a sandwich. Where's your spice rack?"

He hardly had any spices, and certainly not enough to require a separate rack. He told her so and she glared at him for his cheek. They finished unpacking in stony silence, one that he did not feel the urge to break. Hermione disappeared into her bedroom for a few minutes and Draco wondered if he had really been rude enough to prompt a fit of sulking from her. When she emerged a few minutes later wearing a sundress, a large pair of sunglasses, and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, he knew better.

"I'm going to the beach," she announced. "Are you coming?"

"No." He did not think he was ready for that.

"Fine. I'll tell the neighbors you've fallen ill." She gathered two books and brushed by him. She smelled like coconut tanning oil; Draco nearly changed his mind.

"As long as they don't bring over any casseroles," he snarked, but she ignored him and was out the door before he could feel affronted by her dismissal.

Draco watched her until she disappeared down the steps to the beach. He really was making a right mess of things, but he wasn't quite sure what else he could do. He thought back to his early years at Hogwarts and how comfortable they had been. Everyone had had his or her own place. Draco had been the Slytherin prince, Hermione had been the Gryffindor protégé. He'd hated everything about her, she'd loathed him. He had openly antagonized her, she had taken it with quiet conceit. They had both been young, both proud, both actors in a story that would change not only their lives, but the entire magical community. It had been easy to play the part when all he'd had to do was read the script.

But the farce had ended, and its players were free to act as they wanted. Draco wasn't sure what he wanted, unfortunately.

He had a few ideas, the first and foremost of which was to be left alone. That's why he had moved to Canada. He was tired of the gossip, the stares, the whispers, the  _exposure_. The Malfoys were a prominent family and no strangers to a certain amount of attention, but when he could not venture into Diagon Alley without being bombarded by reporters? When he could not take his mother for a night at the theatre without having to draw his wand to defend her? When he could not even sneeze without bringing down the Spanish bloody Inquisition? It was too much. He needed to escape.

On the shores of Lake Huron, Draco found the solace he so desperately craved, and it had rehabilitated him. He felt stronger. Ready to go back to his mother, who missed him terribly, and his father, who had so much still to teach him. Yet days had passed and Draco had not gone home.

Did he  _want_  to stay here? As much as he missed his parents, and though he felt ready to shoulder responsibility, his was a simple life. Living alone required him to care about no one but himself. He experienced freedom in a way that he could not at Malfoy Manor.

Some – specifically, his father – would say returning to Wiltshire was his duty. Draco scowled at the thought and fisted his left hand, watching his tendons ripple beneath the Dark Mark. Hang duty. He'd had his fill of it at the hands of a maniac Lord and had no inclination to serve anyone so completely ever again.

But what did he  _want_?

Draco's stomach growled, and he smiled as the answer presented itself

A sandwich. He wanted a sandwich.

He indulged his appetite with turkey and Swiss on wheat with a side of crisps, a pickle spear, and a tall glass of lemonade. He made toward the kitchen table, then glanced outside. It was sunny. Golden motes of pollen drifted on invisible wind currents, rising and falling, disappearing into the shade. A robin hopped along the grass, cocking its head from side to side and pecking at the ground for food. Its mate was not far off and Draco felt a small twinge of loneliness.

Could what he want be companionship? It should have been simple, but, considering his current companion, the idea was more complicated than Advanced Arithmancy.

He took his plate outside and ate on the deck, which sat on a bluff overlooking the beach. He could see Hermione through the thick foliage. The lake was calm today and she was in the water up to her neck, looking out at the blue expanse before her. Draco followed her gaze and wondered if she was imagining the rocky shores of the United States on the other side.

She ducked beneath the surface and was gone for a full minute, reappearing a few yards nearer to shore. He was grudgingly impressed at how long she could hold her breath, but the feeling turned to panic as she started walking toward the shore. Her brown hair was heavy with water and, though Draco could not see details, he could tell she wore a bikini. Stomach. Leg. Chest.  _Skin_. Bronzing, sculpted, and beautiful. He nearly choked on a crisp when she shook her hair back and wrung it out with her hands, her breasts lifting and stomach stretching taut.

No, he was not ready for the beach with her yet. Not until he could control himself. His erection stirred uncomfortably against his shorts. He grimaced: control was a distant memory.

He tried – and mostly succeeded – to remain impassive as she grabbed a colorful beach towel and ran it over her body, patting at her face, neck, arms, torso, and legs. Then she wrapped it around herself, donned that ridiculous floppy hat, and plunked down in a chair to read. It was better like that, when she was covered up and doing something he expected. She was less dangerous that way.

Less dangerous, but no less entrancing. Draco watched her long after he'd finished his lunch. She hardly moved except to stretch or turn the page, and her stillness gave him a little peace. His thoughts were ill-formed and wandering, but the question of companionship and desires seemed more obviously answered the longer he looked at her. Could he be friends with her? Did he  _want_  to be friends? His traitorous body seemed to know what it wanted well enough, but he was not such a slave to his lust as many liked to think.

Draco's spine stiffened when she rose from her chair. He was prepared to dart out of sight, unwilling to be caught staring at her from afar, but she simply stretched, letting the towel fall away from her body as she did so. His groin sprang back to life, apparently determined to make a liar out of him. She shook out the towel, spread it flat on the sand, then lay atop it, stomach-down, to read. After a moment, she stopped. She looked left, then right, and with a single, deft movement, reached back and unlaced the strap of her bikini top. Draco shot to his feet, suddenly dizzy. He needed to take a long walk.

Or a very cold shower.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**June 2**

Squid sits in the corner of The Bloodied Maiden, hidden by shadows and a charm that bends light around him. It works as well as an invisibility cloak as long as he is still.

And he is. Still and silent, his hands folded on the bar before him. He is scowling, a fierce expression noticed by no one. He taps his fingers in impatience and frustration.

It had all been going so well.

Two weeks ago, he and Ape moved from planning and logistics to implementation. Ape knew the wards, knew the defenses, and convinced Squid that he knew the capabilities of the Manor's owners. On their first two visits, there was no reason to doubt. On the third, they ran into a very vocal, magically adept house-elf. It stunned Ape and would have done the same to Squid had he not run it through with a piercing hex.

All that blood. All that mess. All for nothing.

The creature sent its warning before it perished. The Malfoys, cloaks streaming behind them like war banners, their wands raised in attack, descended upon him. Ape unconscious, the elf bleeding out… What else was there to do but run?

And it had all been going so well!

Squid slams his hand against the bar, his space earning a sideways glance from the barman but no further inquiry. He takes a breath to calm himself, but does not shut his eyes.

He can think of what should have happened for the rest of his life, but it will do him no good. He must think of what will happen, what he is going to do to salvage the mess.

They are well past intimidation. The Malfoys can no longer assuage themselves with lies, with the idea that they are imagining things. No, they are well aware of the threat. They will contact the Ministry soon, if they haven't already.

The Ministry will complicate things. Government usually does. Though perhaps they will cock this up as they have so much else. It is too much to hope, however, so he refrains.

He watches others to keep his mind from himself, uncrossing his hands and letting his fingertips graze the handle of his wand. How mundane they are, these humans. He is one of them, to an extent, connected to them by his biology and not much else. But where these sacks of flesh are purposeless, drifting, colliding only to fuck or maim, he is focused. He has purpose. He has a calling and the means to achieve it.

Means complicated by a thrice-damned, fucking  _elf_.

His rage builds, his fingers rest on his wand, and he fears for a moment that he will lose control and kill the lot of them. Kill them, and then disappear. Disappear…

The door opens, bringing with it an ocean of wind and rain, and the cheery, slurring salutation of a familiar voice.

His fingers cease their twitching, and Squid settles them back upon the countertop. A slow smile – the grin of a predator catching the scent of blood – spreads over his face as Jonathan Baker saunters up to the bar, stumbling the last few steps. He settles into a seat not far from Squid's own.

Squid quickly catalogues the knowns (Name: Jonathan 'Jon' Baker; House: Ravenclaw, but with a dash of Slytherin ambition; Sexual preference: Women; Employment: Magical Law Enforcement Office) and the unknowns (Connection with the Malfoy case; Level of friendliness toward Squid). He watches for a moment longer. Baker's eyes roam the bar, the barman, the women. He lingers over the last group for a few seconds, and his lips quirk up at one corner. Squid feels a rush of warm disgust, but it is not enough to end his observation. Baker turns to the barman and orders a drink.

"Scotch, a double. Neat."

Squid removes the charm and appears next to Baker in less time than it takes the barman to blink. "Make that two."

The barman pauses to stare for a moment. Squid stares back, aware that he is being identified as a predator. He is unfazed by it. Some people could see it. Children and dogs, mostly. Adults with the sight were rarer, but not rare enough to surprise him. Perhaps this barman had seen one too many women leave with the wrong man and never return. Or maybe he simply recognizes kindred.

Squid hardens his eyes, and the barman lowers his chin in mute understanding. Nothing to see here. Move along. Mind your business.

Baker starts and swivels around. Squid plasters a false smile onto his face. Baker is too pissed to discern fake from genuine and so returns the expression.

"Baker," he says with a nod. Usual and refined. There is no need to play the ham.

"Squid!" Baker flings his arms out dramatically, clapping a heavy hand onto Squid's insubstantial shoulders. He pats him hard, much harder than he would have sober. Squid bites into his smile and bears the abuse. It will be worth it.

"How the devil are you?" Baker continues, pulling out a stool.

"Keeping busy." Evasive and vague. There is no need to talk about himself. "Yourself?"

"Bah," Baker snorts, picking up the scotch the barman placed before them. He swirls it and takes a gulp, wincing as it slices down his throat. In a sign of solidarity, Squid takes a sip as well, though his is much smaller. He must keep his senses tonight.

"Work?" Squid asks, trying to sound sympathetic. He doesn't do a good job, but it is enough for Baker, who snorts as he studies the bottom of his glass.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"You're with the MLE Office?"

"Aurors Office," he corrects proudly, raising his glass in a toast to his department. Squid raises his, too; camaraderie, or the appearance of such, is everything to such a target.

"You're certified, then? Auror Baker?"

Baker scowls and tosses back the rest of his drink, signaling the barman for another. Squid abstains.

"No," he says bitterly. "Got pulled off an assignment. Granger…" He pushes air through his teeth, a wet, whistling sound. "You remember her?"

How could he forget? War heroine. Prodigy in almost everything she tried.

Squid shrugs noncommittally. "A few years above me, but yeah. Bookish. Swotty." He winces, but finishes with, "Fantastic arse."

This gets a smile, and Baker lifts his glass once again. "Hasn't changed a bit," he says. "You should see her in dragonhide." Another hiss through his teeth; Squid cannot repress a twitch.

"What about her?"

Baker shoots him an appraising, sideways look, and Squids attempts to look less curious than he feels. After a moment, Baker decides they are both inebriated enough to appreciate the conversation for its shallower qualities. He does not see the intense focus in Squid's eyes, nor how tightly his hand clutches his tumbler.

He shoots Squid a sloppy, conspiratorial smile. "Well, a week or so ago, we get this call. From the  _Malfoys_." He breathes an incredulous laugh. "Of all the fucking people to need  _our_  help…" Squid obliges his pause with an epitaph of his own. It comes from the depths of whatever heart he could still claim to have. Baker nods solemnly.

"Something set off their perimeter wards," he continues. "Spooked them. Killed up an elf. The old bat gets it into her head that someone's after them. Me? I think it's just that Death Eating bastard having some fun with the creature."

"Got tired of drowning krups, I suppose."

Baker laughs again. "Would lose its charm after a while, I suppose. Never should've let him outta Azkaban."

The darkness coiled in Squid's chest spread like oil into his veins. He knocked back the rest of his drink, wincing at the overlarge gulp. "My thoughts exactly."

"Anyway, MLE notes it, thinks it's a joke."

Squid is surprised and cannot help show it. "Joke?"

"Malfoys didn't see anything, and there's no evidence but an elf with a hole in its chest. Hardly what we'd call  _conclusive_."

Squid allows himself a smile and raps the bar with a knuckle. The barman hands him another drink in an instant.

"The Malfoys aren't content with a report, though. They're willing to part with some Galleons to assign a security detail not only on their manor, but also on their fucking scumbag  _son_."

" _Draco_." It comes out with a hiss.

Baker snarls. "The one and only. We got there, about to break down his door, and Granger… I fancy she's got a hard-on for him, because she got her knickers in a twist and sent us back to fuckin' Ottawa to catch the first Portkey back." He spread his arms again and gave a frustrated, grimacing smile. "And here I am without an assignment, royally dicked out of the hours I needed to qualify for my field test." He mutters, "Fucking cunt," around a sip of his drink.

"Cunt indeed," Squid agrees with no real feeling. He has never had a problem with Granger, but neither does he consider her a friend. Going through her to achieve his goal is something he can live with quite easily. He does not give her a second thought.

"Ottawa," he whispers, almost silently. Baker hears and, in the spirit of full disclosure, accommodates his curiosity.

"Canada!" he says with a laugh. "Who would ever think it? It's a nice place actually, about sixty miles north of Greyfarer's Rest. Right on the water. Shitehead."

Squid tenses and sets down his glass gently. It will shatter if he moves with the speed and intensity he feels.

"They'll get what's coming to them," Baker says. Squid recognizes the tight, bitter tone, the sinister, darkened eyes, and the twisted, hateful sneer.

He recognizes an ally.

He finishes his drink in two drags and claps Baker on the shoulder. "We should do this again."

Baker smiles at him. "Reckon we should. Going so soon?"

Squid smiles, too, and it is nearly genuine. "The night is young, and I have a lot of work still to do."

Baker nods as if he understands, though of course he does not. Even Squid is not entirely sure of what to do with this new information. It will come to him. It always does. But step one is to find Ape. Only when Ape knows can their plan move forward.

"I'll be in touch," Squid says, dropping enough money on the bar to cover both tabs.

"Next round's on me!" is Baker's happy reply. "See you around."

Squid waves a hand over his shoulder, then draws his hood and casts an Impervius before stepping out into the wind and rain.

He pauses for a moment outside the pub, allowing the night and its elements to swallow him. It gives his mind a moment to clear. Once he feels invisible and secure, he begins the short journey to Ape's flat above Afflicshun's. He disables the shop's pathetic wards and, when he relocks the door, sets ones that are stronger and more complex. He does likewise on the door to Ape's flat. Squid makes a note to teach Ape how to ward properly.

The thought trickles slowly into the back of his mind as he stands over Ape and watches him sleep. It is not long before the Ape's instincts – greatly reduced, though still functioning in slumber – wake him. His eyes blink open slowly, then snap wide.

"Fuck." Ape sits up. The blankets fall away from his broad, bare chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I have found our next step."

Ape runs a hand through his bristly black hair, then rubs his eyes. "Couldn't fucking wait 'til morning?"

"No. Get up."

Ape grudgingly swings his legs over the side of the bed, and Squid gives him his privacy. He sits at the kitchen table and fingers the chipped linoleum while he waits, listens to rain pattering upon the thin roof, the wind whistling through the warped windows.

Minutes later, Ape lurches out of his bedroom in a pair of shorts. His chest is still bare. He joins Squid in the kitchen, withdrawing two tumblers and a bottle of cheap gin out of the cupboard. He brings them to the table and pours them each a few fingers, then flicks his wand over his shoulder. A few candles flare to life. Their weak flames do little to illuminate the small space.

"What the deuce is so important?"

Squid ignores the gin. He clasps his hands together, squeezing his fingers together in excitement. He leans forward and says, "I know where he is."

"Who?"

"Draco."

Ape is silent and slowly turns his glass on the table. One of the candle flames gutters out. "Where?"

"Canada."

Ape furrows his brow and takes a sip of his drink. "Canada? Seems unlikely."

"As likely as anywhere. He's sixty miles north of a place called Greyfarer's Rest. Have you heard of it?"

Ape shakes his head.

"Me neither. The MLE Office got to him first. Granger's there."

Ape's frown turns into a scowl. "Bitch."

"We need to get to him."

"How?"

Squid narrows his eyes. "I was hoping you would have an idea."

Ape looks surprised, though, upon brief reflection, Squid supposes he would. He has never been valued for his ideas, and it is a rare occasion for him to be asked for one. After a minute, he shakes his head. Squid scowls. That is the easy response, perhaps the automatic one.

"That is unacceptable," Squid says tersely. "You have to have something."

"I don't." Ape's voice is tense. He does not like to be pushed. Squid knows this, but does not care. Ape needs the push, and Squid is happy to oblige.

"Bullshite."

Ape's fists clench. "If I did, don't you think I'd know?"

"No, not necessarily. Not right away. Think, Ape.  _Think_. Your father was a Death Eater."

"Not a very good one."

Squid waves the sour remark away; he has no time for or interest in Ape's personal baggage. "Irrelevant. He still would have had connections. Knew people who knew people. Kept a fucking Rolodex.  _Something_."

Silence hangs between them for a moment, then Ape asks, "Rolodex?"

"Address book," Squid mutters vaguely. He spins the half-full glass and stares into space moodily, ashamed of the slip. "It's a Muggle thing."

The silence returns, but is broken a few minutes later when Ape sets down his glass and rises from the table. Squid ignores him. If Ape does indeed have nothing, then he will simply have to solve the problem on his own.

He needs to get from England to Canada without either government's knowledge.

The scope nearly makes him laugh, or maybe cry, but he remains composed. There has to be a way. Intercontinental Apparition is far too dangerous. They need a government permit to arrange a Portkey, or more likely a string of Portkeys. The Floo system might be an option, but Squid is sure that Malfoy has either disconnected or blocked his. Still, it may be the path of least resistance. But the question remains:  _how_?

The slap of leather on wood draws Squid's attention back to Ape, who is smiling proudly. A rare expression.

"My Rolodex."

It is a small leather notebook, extremely worn at the corners and edges, as if it were once thumbed through obsessively. The parchment within is frayed and crumbling, and some scraps stick out at odd angles. Squid reaches for it. As soon as his hand makes contact with the binding, an electric shock shoots up his arm. It is equally surprising and painful, and he launches himself up and backwards, swearing, attempting to shake feeling into his numb limb.

Ape chuckles, which earns a glare from Squid.

"It was my father's." Ape shrugs, as if that explains everything.

And it does. Legacy items often carry blood-specific charms. Only a direct descendant of Ape's family could handle the text. Squid would have bet his finest cauldron that only a direct descendant could read it, too.

Ape takes a seat and drags the notebook toward him, flipping it open to the first page. The writing is convoluted and twisting. Squid's stomach churns as his eyes struggle to follow it, so he follows Ape's eyes instead. His partner has no such trouble with the text. His eyes scan the first page slowly. Seeing nothing of use, he continues onto the second.

"We're looking for Floo contacts," Squid says, eager to direct Ape's search. "Someone who can authorize a Portkey."

"No. Neither of those."

Squid clenches his teeth together. He is not accustomed to being challenged. "Why not?"

Ape looks up, considers him for a moment, then turns back to the notebook. "There's more than one way to scale a dragon."

Squid frowns. What better way is there than a direct approach? They sit in silence for a long while, and Ape is almost halfway through the book before it clicks. Squid sits up straight, his body tense. The alcohol does little to dull his excitement.

He waits until Ape whispers, "Gotcha," and then he stands.

He is eager to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed so far! We're a third of the way through now. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you're going to like this chapter. ;)   
> Please let me know what you think!

**Chapter Six**

**June 5**

Draco lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling tiles. He had been up since dawn and hadn't moved, even though he was hungry and needed to pee.

Today was his twenty-first birthday.

He heard the sound of running water, which meant Hermione was awake. He wondered if she would remember his birthday. That would surprise him. Hell, he doubted she even knew when it was. At least he could expect a letter from his parents today, though he knew what the letter would say.

Narcissa would cajole him to return home and make him feel guilty for leaving in the first place. Though he loved his mother, sometimes she reminded him of a Niffler: when she saw something she wanted, she would not give up until she had it. Tenacity was a trait shared by all Blacks. Draco had found it useful enough in his own lifetime, but often wished that his mother would fixate on something other than him.

Lucius, though not a Black, was no less focused. Subtle attacks on Draco's honor would be hidden amidst updates about the family business. Both of them would hint at the desire for an heir.  _That_  was what Draco looked forward to least. Undoubtedly, they expected him to return with a well-bred, wide-hipped, willing witch who was already half in love with him or his fortune. Imagining their disappointment sometimes made him laugh, but more often made him frustrated.

This morning brought the former. If he returned at all, it would probably be with Hermione, who was famously low-born, as obstinate as he was, and about as fond of him as Devil's Snare was of sunlight. Her hips weren't bad, however. Perhaps Narcissa  _would_ approve.

Draco gave his mind room to roam, but his thoughts never wandered far from the girl who was just a hallway's width away. It would be easier just to admit that she was attractive in a bookish, Granger-y sort of way. Oh Circe, who was he kidding? Hermione was attractive in all the ways a woman could be attractive, and that wasn't just the celibacy talking. She was firm and feminine. Her eyes shone and her laugh – what little he had heard of it – made his heart leap into his throat. Yes, he should just admit it and have a good wank. Maybe it would be easier to talk to her once he imagined all the ways her pink lips could satisfy him. Maybe he could go to the beach with her without exposing himself like some perverted teenager. But if she unlaced her top again...

His cock twitched and Draco knew it was too late. It had been three days since he last masturbated and he could no longer forestall the inevitable: he needed release. His gripped himself firmly and closed his eyes, all the while wondering if she would do it better. He surrendered to his fantasies, dark, wild scenarios that fueled his lust and made his heart pound. Sooner than he would have liked but no sooner than he anticipated, his hips jerked forward and he bit his lip, holding back a grunt of pleasure. It wouldn't be enough – it never was, after having had the real thing – but it would do for now.

He wiped himself off and rose from bed, donning a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Then he pressed his ear to the door, listening for her. The cottage was silent. It didn't surprise him: she had taken to eating breakfast on the deck. Maybe he'd join her there, with his orange juice and toast. Maybe they'd talk a little, and maybe, with the advent of a new year, he could try to improve their relationship.

It was a heartening thought, but it carried him no further than the dining room table.

A medium-sized basin made of stone and bronze sat at the head of the table. Beside it was a large vial of a pearly white water. Or was it gas? He had never seen water swirl like that. He approached with caution. He doubted Hermione would set a trap for him, but what if she had caught him staring at her a few days ago? She was fierce when rankled, and he wouldn't put it past her to booby-trap innocuous items if it meant restoring damaged dignity. He circumvented that side of the table to grab his wand, then approached slowly. Stuck under the edge of the basin was a note on the lined paper Muggles preferred to parchment.

_Draco -_

_As I'm sure you already know, this is a Pensieve. The vial to the left contains memories. To view them, simply upend the vial into the basin and lean in close. I've gone to the deck to give you some privacy. I'll be back in a few hours._

_Happy birthday,_

_\- Jean_

Draco read the letter several times and looked at the basin and vial again. Yes, it was obvious now that the basin was a Pensieve, though he had never seen a bottle of memories before. He reached for the vial and hefted it in his hands. The glass was cool against his fingers, and he thought he could feel a low thrum of energy from its contents. Whose memories were they? Certainly not Hermione's. She would never let him into such a private place, birthday be damned. His parents', then? That seemed more likely but much more daunting. The letters his mother and father sent kept him more or less abreast of what was happening in England, but to see it through their eyes would be a trying experience.

He silently thanked Hermione for her courtesy and foresight as he uncorked the bottle and tipped its contents into the shallow basin. With a deep breath, he leaned forward, bracing himself for the unknown. Then he was falling. A stone floor rushed up to meet him, to kill him or break his legs, but he landed without noise or discomfort, as if he had been standing there the entire time.

He couldn't feel anything – no chill, no wind, no damp – but his surroundings looked all three. Stone floor met stone walls, which met stone ceiling, and Draco wondered where he could be when he heard a woman's voice beside him. A crisp, clean voice he would know anywhere.

"Narcissa Malfoy to see Lucius Malfoy."

Draco turned on the spot and nearly collapsed. There she was, standing not a hand's breadth away from him. Draco had been taller than she ever since fifth year, but she looked even more diminished to him now. Thinner, perhaps, and certainly older. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that had not been there before. Draco felt a sudden flood of shame: he had done this to her.

"This way," said the guard. Draco followed as the guard led her down a hallway to the right, through a door, up a flight of stairs, and through a pair of double doors labeled "Hospital" in thick black letters. He gasped in unison with his mother as their eyes landed on the ward's only occupant.

"Lucius," Narcissa whispered and rushed to his bedside. Draco stood at the door, struck motionless in shock.

His father was a wraith, a mere shadow of his former self. His full, muscular body had withered down to skin and bone and his face was just as hollowed, all cheekbones and dark shadows hidden behind a thin, pitiful excuse for a beard. His long blond hair fell lank and stringy about his shoulders.

"How is he?" His mother's question cracked the air like lightning. "Healer Swenson?"

"Here, Mrs. Malfoy. I apologize for not meeting you directly." A thin, pale man who looked like the Reaper himself joined Narcissa at Lucius' bedside. Draco approached them slowly. "The flux has taken much of your husband's strength. He can take a little broth and honeyed water, but no solid food. He sleeps fretfully and is catatonic when he wakes."

"What about his magic? Can he still…"

Swenson shook his head. "I can't tell. He's been too weak to perform even simple spells, but that could be due to the decreased power of the diagnostic wand. It would be clearer if he was allowed his own, but under the circumstances…"

Narcissa winced slightly and Draco echoed her expression. Lucius' wand had been destroyed in Voldemort's duel with Potter. He had not had time to procure a new one before his incarceration. and, his history with Ollivander being what it was, it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to procure another of such high quality after his release.

"We would know more if he were recovering faster, but… Mrs. Malfoy, perhaps you should sit down." Narcissa paled and seemed to sway where she stood. She nodded absently and descended into the spindly bedside chair.

"I will not lie to you, Mrs. Malfoy. Your husband is in dire need of expert medical care. He needs facilities and equipment that I simply do not have here, despite my requests." Swenson's frown deepened. "If he stays here much longer, I'm afraid you'll have to begin making… arrangements."

Narcissa let out a shuddering sob. The healer laid his hand comfortingly on her shoulder and Draco's esteem for the man grew exponentially. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. Truly."

"Is there anything?" Narcissa gasped. Her hand closed over Lucius' bony fingers. " _Anything_  I can do? Money is no matter, and my family, we may not be as we were, but..."

Swenson sighed. "Azkaban's policy on outside consultations for medical purposes is a process that takes three months. Your husband simply does not have that time. I've spoken to Warden Robinson, and he is willing to expedite the process. Lord Malfoy could be in St. Mungo's by next week, but a more  _personal_  appeal on Lucius' behalf would be required. Those are his words, not mine," Swenson said.

Narcissa's furious glare softened, but her tone was tempered steel. "Does that man's greed know no limits?"

"I'm afraid not. You should speak to him as soon as possible. Today, even. And be prepared for a fight: we both know Robinson's attitude toward the imprisoned."

"He should never have been made warden," she spat. "Any man who would consider  _Muggle_ methods of execution..." She shuddered.

Swenson scowled. "Barbaric," he whispered in agreement.

There was a moment of silence, then Narcissa rose. "Thank you, Healer Swenson." She grasped the old man's hand firmly in her own. "I will not forget your kindness."

"You are most welcome, Mrs. Malfoy. I am sorry I cannot do more. The best of luck to you both."

The ward began to vanish, allowing Draco a moment's respite. His father's illness had been much more serious than Narcissa had described. He felt a sudden flare of anger. She shouldn't have lied to him. The man was his father. He had a right to know!

Anger ebbed almost immediately into guilt. She shouldn't have  _had_ to lie to him. Draco should have been there to see his father's decline firsthand. He shouldn't have left them like he did, with no word or warning, and he should have returned the moment his father became ill. That was what a good son would have done. That was what a good  _person_  would have done. Had he forfeited his right to be called either? Had he  _ever_  had that right?

The blackness swirled and reformed around him. Instead of a dark, unfamiliar setting, he was in his parents' bedroom at the Manor. It was a large room with yellow-gold walls and pale green and brown accents. Draco thought the décor would throw many people off guard if they were ever to see it. Most probably thought Lucius slept in a coffin and that Narcissa, who had married a Slytherin king and sired its prince, chose only to decorate in shades of green. In fact, his father enjoyed a rather large bed and his mother's favorite color happened to be crisp, cerulean blue, which she incorporated into every room she frequented.

It was Draco's favorite color, too, but more for the memory associated with it rather than the shade itself.

Beside his mother's vanity was the bedroom's cerulean accent: an ancient Ming vase. As a child, Draco had been fascinated with it because  _she_  was fascinated with it, and it drove her to distraction when he touched it. One evening, Narcissa had been at her vanity donning jewelry for a party. Draco – who had already been clothed in his nicest and most uncomfortable dress robes – whinged next to her until she sent him away to find his father. He stomped his foot in a fit of temper and exploded the vase, embedding shards of glazed clay inches deep into the yellow-gold walls.

His mother cried out in surprise. The enormity of what he had done struck him immediately, so he did what any self-respecting four–year-old would have done. He ran. He ran fast and true and straight into his father's arms, who had come rushing at the sound of Narcissa's distress. He caught Draco around the middle and swung him into the air, bearing him back toward the scene of the crime.

Lucius's arms held him securely as Narcissa related the vase-exploding incident. Draco was too afraid and ashamed to look at his mother, so kept his head buried in his father's shoulder, fighting (unsuccessfully) to keep his tears at bay. If he had looked, however, he would have seen Narcissa's tender gaze and Lucius's proud smile.

In gentle tones, his mother explained to Draco what had happened: he had had his first experience with magic. And, while this was a reason to celebrate, it meant that Draco had to be careful from now on not to break any more of his mother's beloved pottery. He nodded and mumbled a soft but sincere, "Sorry, Mother." Narcissa kissed him on his forehead, smooth his hair, and dismissed them both.

As Lucius carried him away, he whispered in Draco's ear. "I've wanted to destroy that vase for years. Today, you did what your father never would have had the courage to do."

Almost seventeen years later, shards of cerulean still stuck out of the yellow-gold wall. The vase had never stopped being Narcissa's favorite.

Draco shook himself. He missed his parents terribly, yes, but that was not the memory he was here to see. He turned toward his parents.

His father was still bedridden, but his skin was less pale and he had gained a bit of weight. Weight gain meant his body was taking food. Draco felt a surge of relief: the flux must have been in remission. Narcissa sat in a chair by his bedside, reading. She looked considerably healthier, too. Less tired. Draco smiled; it was nice to see her like that.

Lucius groaned and moved his head. Narcissa's book fell to the floor with a thump.

"Suppy!" A house-elf appeared by his mother's elbow. "Suppy, he's waking. Inform Healer Swenson at once." The elf nodded and disappeared with another sharp noise. "Lucius? Lucius, darling, can you hear me?"

"Narcissa?" His voice was weak, barely a whisper.

"Yes! Oh, yes, Lucius, it's me!" She pressed trembling lips to his forehead in a tender kiss.

"Where are we?"

"At the Manor, dearest, in our bedroom." His father's eyes asked a question that she could read despite their hooded and sunken quality. "I persuaded Robinson to call a Ministry hearing. They issued a revised sentence on account of the severity of your illness. You've been placed under house arrest for the next twenty years. Robinson wanted to throw you back into Azkaban after you recovered, but because of the high relapse rate of the flux, you were allowed to come home.  _Home_ , Lucius!"

His father gave a weak smile. "And Draco?"

Draco reached toward his father's hand. "I'm here, Father," he said softly.

"Still abroad," Narcissa replied, looking stricken. Draco felt his shame burn hotter.

"You'd think he would come home for his dying father."

"Barely recovered and already grousing," she teased. "And you aren't dying anymore. I told him about your illness but downplayed the severity. He needs time. You know that."

Lucius looked disgruntled. " _I_  need time with  _him_ , Narcissa. The business..."

"Oh hush, you've just woken. Let the council handle the business. They've managed fine without you so far. Until Healer Swenson gives you leave –"

"Swenson? From Azkaban?"

"He helped me get you back," said Narcissa tenderly, smoothing his hair. "Mungo's suggested a live-in Healer until you were out of danger. Swenson was stagnating in that old prison. He's been a great comfort to me these past weeks, and his devotion to you has been unwavering. We owe him a great deal."

His father groaned softly and closed his eyes. "I remember a time when the Malfoys were the ones  _owed_."

"Times have changed," Narcissa said gently and placed another kiss on Lucius' brow. "Now where is Swenson? He'll want to look you over befo –"

The room disappeared and Draco felt a moment of panic. He was not ready to leave them yet. He wanted to see more, to hear more, and he got his wish as the memory stream continued to flow. The blackness swirled and writhed around him, never forming fully. The series of memories he experienced were engulfed in a haze that never really disappeared, but thickened and thinned as one scene shifted to another. None of the memories gave him more than a glimpse into life at the Manor.

Narcissa tended the gardens, her fresh appearance out of place among the earth and stone. She trimmed roses and pruned bushes while whispering words Draco could not understand, spells and enchantments to promote growth and recovery and beauty.

Lucius read by the library fire. Snow fell thickly outside, and his mother entered with two cups of cocoa dosed heavily with crème liqueur. The smile on his father's face was one Draco had never seen before. He realized then, very suddenly and very deeply, just how much they loved each other.

Lucius stood at the head of a grand mahogany table before applauding council members. He seemed to have real need of his cane now, and Draco saw the effort he put into standing on his own. His chest swelled with pride. His father was a strong man. It would take more than illness to end him.

Narcissa stood at threshold to Draco's old room. She was crying. Lucius came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her into the protection of his chest and whatever comfort his proximity could give her.

Then the fog cleared and Draco stood before both of his parents. They were in the sunroom surrounded by bright green plants, seated on a white wicker sofa padded with cerulean cushions. Glasses of white wine perspired on the table before them and the sun shone gently, preparing to set for the evening, giving them an ethereal aura.

"Hello, Draco, and happy birthday," said Narcissa. She smiled at him and Draco smiled back, not caring that they could not see him. "I hope you found the memories we sent enlightening. I won't apologize for keeping the truth of your father's illness from you. We both understand and respect your need for space. I just hope that it won't affect your decision to come home.

"We miss you very much and wish we could be with you to celebrate today. We hope you enjoy the basket we've sent. It's your favorite dinner, prepared just the way you remember. I believe you have your father to thank for the whiskey," she deadpanned, "though hopefully you won't be enjoying either gift alone. We would have sent a basket sooner, but the Canadian Ministry strictly controls magical imports and the approval application is notoriously tricky to come by. We have Ms. Granger to thank for pushing our application through in time."

"Regarding Ms Granger," his father said hesitantly. His silver eyes darted sideways to glance at Narcissa, who stared at him a little ferociously. He cleared his throat and continued. "Draco, I've made mistakes. It took almost dying for me to realize most of them and barely surviving to realize what impact they might have had on you. I... I apologize for the pain I've caused both you and your mother, and I hope one day you might forgive me."

Narcissa took his hand and smiled at him. She had forgiven him a long time ago. So had Draco.

"I do hope you are treating Ms Granger kindly. She was not our first choice for this... venture, but she has treated us with respect and has ensured that we receive the same from her coworkers. She's bright and capable, regardless of her..." – Narcissa's hand tightened around his – " _unfortunate_   _beginnings_ …" She gave another squeeze, hard enough to make Lucius wince. "With our family," he amended delicately. Draco laughed aloud. It was progress, but Lucius still had some distance yet to go.

"Listen to her," Narcissa said. "She has our family's best interests at heart. Make us proud, dearest. You'll always have our love and our support, no matter your choices." She finished with a significant look that Draco could not quite puzzle out. Perhaps it was simply a glitch of the Pensieve.

He basked in his parents' smiles as the memories faded for good. Then he was falling away, soaring without direction until he was back in the cottage, staring at the Pensieve with tear-filled eyes. To the right of the bowl materialized a large basket of covered silver platters, two bottles of Firewhiskey, and a thick roll of parchment labeled  _Malfoy Holdings Yearly Report_. He laughed, fingered the parchment, and turned as the side door opened.

It was Hermione, but the sun shone in such a way that she looked like so much more. For an instant, she was a forest nymph, wild and beautiful, with sun-kissed cheeks, bright eyes, and shining hair. Draco's heart stuttered in his chest, and he suddenly knew what his mother's look had meant.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Draco. I thought you would be..." Hermione cocked her head at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." His voiced cracked. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm fine. I just saw the memories, that's all."

She nodded sympathetically. "I can give you more time, if you'd like."

"No, you don't have to do that. I'm..." He took a deep breath and forced a smile. "I'm fine."

She looked skeptical, but nodded. "Well, wait right there. I've got something for you, too." She disappeared into her room and appeared less than a minute later, holding a box wrapped in colorful paper. She offered it to him. Forgetting himself, he stepped away. She frowned at his rudeness. "It's not a Skrewt, Draco."

"You shouldn't have done this," he said quietly. This changed things. This changed  _everything_.

She looked at him, confused. "Maybe you should open it first and then decide. Here." She held it out to him again, shaking it slightly. This time, he accepted it. Feeling weak, he set the box on the table and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a modest selection of Honeydukes' sweets: Chocolate Frogs and Pepper Imps; Fizzing Whizzbees and Bertie Bott's. She had brought him all the best parts of home.

His hands rested limply over the box and he stared at her in bewilderment. "Why?" he asked softly.

She looked just as confused as before and more than a little uncertain. "Honeydukes isn't an international chain. You've been away from England for so long, so I thought you would like a reminder of what you left behind." She glanced at Narcissa's humongous basket. "I guess it's a bit redundant now."

"No," he said sharply. "No, that wasn't what I meant. This is..." He looked from her to the brightly wrapped sweets and stalled. What was this? A peace offering? A clean slate? Or simply an unselfish act of kindness? "Unexpected," he finished lamely.

Her expression faltered. "Oh. Well, yes, I suppose you're right. I was just going to get your favorite, but Narcissa refused to tell me what it was, so I just got you a bit of everything."

"The Whizzbees," he said quietly. "Those are my favorite."

Just like that, her smile was back in place. "Next time, then." She turned to go to the kitchen.

"What are yours?"

She stopped and turned to look at him, puzzled once more.

"Your favorites?" he clarified.

"Sugar quills," she answered with a guilty smile. "I know they're just about the worst things for you, but I can't help it. My parents' fault, I suppose. They're dentists – they work with people's teeth – so my sugar consumption was limited when I was a child. There are a couple boxes beneath the imps and the frogs. I got the new flavors - kiwi-passion fruit and peach punch. I've heard good things."

Draco nodded. "We'll have to try them later. Thank you, Hermione, for... For everything."

She smiled at him –  _really_ smiled – and Draco felt like he was falling through the Pensieve all over again.

"You're welcome, Draco. And call me Jean."

"Jean." It came out like a purr. She flushed, and Draco enjoyed the reaction much more than he should have. "I'll try." And he meant it.

That was the first day they spent any significant time together. After a quiet breakfast on the deck, he set up a chair beside hers in his favorite patch of sunshine and they read in companionable silence. He brought her a glass of lemonade in the afternoon and nearly spilled it down his front when she smiled at him once more.

Feeling confident, he invited her to the beach. She looked up from her book, shading her eyes from the sun, and considered him for a long moment.

"No, you go ahead."

He nodded, feeling strangely rebuffed. The day had been going so well. It felt like they had crossed some sort of barrier. Or maybe only he had crossed it. She had ignored that invisible line the moment she walked through his door six – had it really only been  _six_? – days ago. The beach was supposed to be another barrier, another almost insurmountable hurdle, as silly as that sounded. If he could make it through a beach trip without making an arse out of himself, then he would know.

Know what, exactly? That he was adult enough to look at a female without embarrassment? That he was mature enough to move past what had happened between them all at Hogwarts? That he could tolerate Granger? No,  _Hermione_? Curses,  _no_!  _Jean_?

The water did surprisingly little to dispel his unease, and he found himself beginning to resent her just a little. Hermione couldn't just come into his life, treat him kindly, bring him the best birthday gifts he had ever received, and then abandon him. It didn't work like that. Though refusing to go to the beach with him the first time he asked couldn't really be classified as 'abandonment,' could it? It didn't bear thinking about: Draco felt lonely, and it was clearly her fault.

Having reached that satisfying (if somewhat inaccurate) conclusion, Draco emerged from the water. He shook out his hair, wrapped his towel around his waist, and climbed the sixty-two stairs back to his little cottage, nursing a bad attitude the whole way and vowing not to give into whatever kindness she sprang on him next.

What he saw on the deck made him eat his words.

A blue and white checkered tablecloth covered the old picnic table, held down on either end by a pair of stubby candles. Hermione gently lowered the basket from his mother onto the table, nearly upsetting the full water carafe. There was only one place setting.

"What are you doing?"

Hermione jumped and turned around. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"Oh! I, um… Well, I hoped I would have a little more time to set everything up. You see –"

"Granger, why –"

"Don't ask why," she said, a little pleadingly. She looked distressed, as if she couldn't fully justify what she was doing even to herself, and her hands fluttered about the hem of her shirt. "Just accept it and enjoy the evening, okay? I'm almost finished."

Draco frowned and moved past her without another word. He changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a grey t-shirt, though he seriously contemplated a dark-blue button-down with a collar. Then he went into the kitchen and grabbed an extra bowl, plate, and silverware. Hermione walked in on him as he was reaching for a glass.

"What are you doing?"

"Setting the table, as you are apparently incompetent at doing so correctly. I don't blame you, though. I only know how because I had to attend etiquette classes as a child. I can't help it."

"Etiquette classes and yet you can still insult a lady," she quipped sourly.

" _Tease_ ," he corrected her with an over-the-shoulder glance and grin. " _Tease_  a lady. I skipped that lesson, anyway."

"No surprise there. Did you also skip your ophthalmology appointment? I already set the table."

He did not bother asking what an ophthalmology was. "For one."

"Yes, for one. For… For you."

He halted his quest for a glass and turned to look at her fully. Her brow was furrowed, making her look worried and – dare he even think it? – attractive. Gods above, what was happening to him? And why the devil didn't he have the sense or strength to stop it?

"Etiquette classes, I told you. I can't enjoy a meal if I know a guest is going hungry."

"I was going to eat later. And since when have I been a guest? I thought I was an imposition."

"The way to a man's heart, Granger." Her eyes widened considerably and she blushed again, unable to maintain eye contact. Draco grinned. "If I know my mother, she sent more food than I alone can consume. In fact, if I know her at all, she will have sent me just enough for two and is probably praying that my good breeding doesn't fail her now."

"Fail  _her_?"

He sighed. "My mother seems to like you. I would be a rather grand disappointment if I treated you poorly when she wishes otherwise."

"So your  _mother_  wants me to eat with you."

"I believe so, yes."

Hermione thought that over for a minute and something within her seemed to deflate. Draco wondered what he had done wrong, and his own mood dipped as well.

Then she nodded. "Very well. I would hate to disappoint her."

"Don't tell me you're fond of her as well?"

"I find her very agreeable," she said, holding the door open for him. "What I can't understand is how she can like  _you_."

That quickly, the mood lifted.

"Careful,  _Jean_. You're well on your way to being demoted to 'imposition' status again."

"Merlin forbid."

The night went on along that vein for quite some time. They ate, joked, and talked about everything and nothing. Then they cleared the table save for a bottle of firewhiskey, two mismatched tumblers, strawberry Whizzbees, and a box of peach punch Quills, and Draco found himself wondering if this was what it was like for those two buffoon friends of hers. Did she make them feel important? Did she make them feel special? Did they even know how good they had it?

Probably not, he decided as he watched the sunset and Hermione in equal parts. People hardly knew what they had until it was gone. In his case, he did not know what he'd been missing until he had it. Pity he had to find out so late, but it was better late than never and Draco, though originally annoyed at her presence, was grateful for her.

In a single day, Hermione had made him feel like the only man in the world.

In a single day, she had become the only woman in his.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep! A busy real-life prevented me from updating on Wednesday, so please excuse the lateness.

**Chapter Seven**

**June 6**

Draco no longer dealt much with labels. 'Death Eater' and 'evil' and 'amazing bouncing ferret' could do too much harm if they were the focus of one's life. It was much simpler to just be himself, without worrying about being the 'heir' or the 'last-in-the-Malfoy-line-so-you-had-better-produce -male-spawn-and-fast.' Too much responsibility, too little freedom.

But in Hermione's case, freedom was something he did not want to consider. Freedom to think that what he felt toward her – if he felt anything at all, for he had not entirely abandoned the idea that his  _other_  head was doing more thinking than it was supposed to – was something deeper than his previous, superficial flings. Freedom to think that it could ever  _become_  anything more than just a brief infatuation brought on by years of solitude. Labeling what he felt, what he  _thought_  he felt, pinning it down tightly enough so that it couldn't flutter around his cerebellum and give him thoughts he should not have, was the safest way to deal with their situation. A situation that was, he had to frequently remind himself,  _temporary_.

Strangely enough, he disliked that label even more.

So, as Draco sat on the couch (he had no desire to venture out into the torrential rain currently bombarding his property), only partially engrossed in his Muggle novel, he decided that it was fascination.

Pure fascination.

That was what he might have felt toward Hermione Granger.

That was why he couldn't stop staring at her over the top of his book. That was how he knew she blinked, on average, five times per minute when focused on the page; how he knew the wide, almond-oval shape her eyes made when she reached an exciting part; how he knew the dexterity of her fingers as they turned the page, the motion smooth and efficient from years of practice.

That was how he discovered her stillness. Seeing her now was such a change from the frantic, constantly moving character he had thought her, always running off to the library, sneaking out of the castle, saving the world, or slapping him across the face… A grin and a sneer fought for control of his features, twisting his mouth uncomfortably. No, stillness had never been part of his mental picture of her, yet here she was, and here she had been for hours, transformed by the presence of literature. Sitting in the same ugly, oversized, overstuffed chair in the same position – legs tossed over one arm, a pillow squished between her back and the opposite arm – with only a roll of her neck or the flex of her shoulders to interrupt her reading.

She could be downright beautiful when she wasn't lecturing or fretting. Curly hair falling loose from its half-hearted restraint and tickling her cheek… Delightfully pink tongue running sporadically over full lips… Breasts rising and falling rhythmically with her breathing…

Draco shook himself and turned back to his own book, but could not stop his eyes from flicking up to look at her.

_Fascination_.

That was all.

_Temporary._

He had to remember.

**June 7**

The rain had not let up. It fell in grey sheets upon the muted green and brown background. Days like this were common in the summer and Draco usually got through them just fine. He spent most of his time alone, so why should the weather make any difference? He would just put off tending the lawn for another day – though he did have to do that soon – and toss a pizza in the oven for dinner.

Life indoors with a wood nymph was quite a different thing. Dryads weren't supposed to be cooped up for long, if ever, and his nymph – never mind exactly when she had suddenly and inexplicably become  _his_  when he knew she would never be anything of the sort – was showing signs of restlessness. She sighed and shifted, even going so far as to close her book and stare out the window. Weirdly, though he had been trapped with her for going on two days, he was not any closer to murdering her than he had been on his birthday. Her fussing was starting to wear upon him, however.

Shortly after noon, he was allowed a respite from her fidgeting. She pushed herself up from her chair, stretched (Draco did his best to ignore her breasts, but her shirts really were far too fitted to be decent), and announced that she was going to check in with her supervisor, Bates.

Draco looked up from his book, anger and suspicion quickly rising. "You connected me to the Floo system?"

She looked at him quizzically and shook her head. "No. No, of course not. We'd never do something so invasive without your permission."

Draco snorted. Hermione went on as if she hadn't heard him.

"I'll be using a phone."

It was his turn to look quizzical.

"Honestly?" she asked, a little exasperated. Draco shrugged. "Muggle Studies should be mandatory," she muttered, disappearing into her room and reappearing a moment later. She held in her hand a silver device about as big as her palm and two fingers thick.

"This is a mobile phone, or a mobile." She dropped the device into his hand. He took it in favor of the book and studied it closely. "It works similarly to the Floo system, except that it can't transport you anywhere and you don't see the person you're talking to. It's almost like a Patronus message – all you hear is the voice."

Draco flipped it open, revealing a screen, a number pad, and several other buttons decaled with symbols he didn't understand. "How does it work?"

Hermione shrugged. "It's pretty complicated; phones were an entire month in Muggle Studies. But have you ever seen those giant aerials dotting the countryside?"

Draco nodded.

"One phone transmits a frequency to another, helped along by those aerials. The phones then connect wirelessly and you can talk to whoever's on the other line. The phones themselves are powered by batteries. This is where we are at a disadvantage. Our magic muddles the electrical components, but someone saw enough potential to give a few sets to Research and Development. Two years later, they gave us this." She gestured toward his hands. "All you have to do is punch in the number of the person you want to talk to and hit send."

"Any number?"

"No." She furrowed her brow. "I suppose I misspoke. The other  _phone's_ number. For Muggles in the States and Canada, it's nine digits long, including the area code. For us, it's only seven digits."

Draco considered the device closely. The ability to talk to anyone, anywhere, instantly, was very appealing. No waiting for an owl, no concerns about ash in one's hair, no possibility of splinching. "Why doesn't every wizard have one?"

"Not every wizard can afford them. Only a few people know the charm to get them to work, and there are some inner electrical components that need to be removed so that it doesn't explode when used. Right now, they're restricted to Ministry workers. Bates paid the fee for mine once I convinced him a phone would be less traceable than connecting you or the Wales safe house to the Floo network."

"And your boss has the mate to this one?"

Hermione grimaced and bobbled her head. "Yes and no. He has a phone, too, but they don't only come in pairs. It's complicated, though – more to do with frequencies. With this, I can talk to  _anyone_  else with a phone, even Muggles."

It was this piece of information that Draco considered now. If this Muggle device was a phone, then that thick, yellow book that had materialized in his driveway one summer morning was good for more than dust collection.

She went as far as to show him how to operate the buttons before removing herself from the living room to the limited privacy of her room. Draco, to his credit, only considered eavesdropping for the first two minutes of her absence. Once he realized that he could hear decently enough without his ear pressed to the doorjamb did he content himself with staying on the couch.

Their conversation did not take long. Hermione reported that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Yes, they both were still in possession of all of their limbs. No, they had not yet had to use magic, even though they wanted to. Then there were three minutes of silence followed by a string of soft but vehement, "No's." Draco would've given his eyeteeth to know what had prompted that response out of Hermione, but she was probably aware of the thinness of the walls by now and said nothing at all explanatory. She hung up soon after that and rejoined him in the living room, taking up her book once more.

Around four o'clock, she rose from the chair again. Draco remained on the couch, content to observe her. She went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and drank only half of it before setting it down on the counter. Then she went to her room. A door opened, boxes shuffled about, and she cursed quietly. Finally, she reemerged, holding a box with the word, "Scrabble" printed on the side and a dictionary labeled the same.

Draco waited for an explanation as she cleared a space on the kitchen table and started unpacking the box, revealing a board, a maroon bag that rattled when moved, two miniature racks, a pad of paper, and a pen. As she began to read what he could only assume were the instructions, he could wait no longer.

"What is that?"

"It came out of your closet. Don't you know?"

Draco shrugged. He hadn't explored the guest room closet too thoroughly.

"It's called a board game," she replied. "Would you like to play?"

"The answer must be yes as you've already set up my seat."

"But I haven't yet picked your letters. You get seven." She pushed the bag toward his chair. Draco marked his page and jointed her at the table, curious.

"Seven letters?"

"Yes, and then you combine them to make words. See the little number in the corner? That's what the letter is worth. Your word score is the combination of the letters plus any board bonuses. Laying on a double letter score, for instance," she pointed to a light blue square, "doubles the worth of the letter. Double  _word_  score," she pointed to a salmon-colored square, "doubles –"

"The worth of the word, yes. I think I can intuit the rest of it."

"Very well," she huffed. "No proper nouns, abbreviations, or acronyms. We'll pick letters to see who goes first." She pulled a 'C'; Draco pulled a 'V.' She smiled and placed the tile back in the bag, gesturing for him to do the same. "Let's see how you make out."

She picked her letters, he followed suit, and the game began.

Both he and Hermione were bright and had no problem making words, but the game lasted over two hours nevertheless. It could have been over sooner but for several lengthy arguments about the validity of words, use of the board, and a half-serious quarrel about the inclusion of so-called "wizarding" words.

"Apparate? You can't use Apparate!"

Draco looked up from his empty letter tray, feeling quite pleased with himself. Emptying one's tray was like the Golden Snitch of Scrabble: it was fifty extra points and usually meant the opponent's loss. If one's opponent wasn't Hermione "Swallowed a Dictionary" Granger, anyway. She had emptied her word bank two turns before with "mandolin" and, like him, had made strategic use of a double word score bonus, earning her seventy points.

"I always knew you were proud, Granger, but I never thought you were petty."

She narrowed her eyes. "Come again?"

"This would earn me four more points than your word and put me in the lead. Why else would I not be allowed to play Apparate?"

"It's a proper noun."

"No, it's a proper  _verb_. I think you'll find the rules don't mention those."

Hermione frowned. "But it's not a Muggle word."

"So?"

"This is a  _Muggle_  game!"

"And two wizards are playing it. It's not my fault they failed to plan for contingencies."

"Draco, it's not allowed."

"Rubbish. Hand me that quill –"

" _Pencil_."

"– so I can mark down my score."

She shook her head. "Apparate isn't in the Scrabble-approved dictionary. If it's not in here" – she waved the book before his nose – "it shouldn't be allowed."

Quick as a cat, Draco snatched the book away from her and held it above his head, quite out of her reach. She looked appropriately affronted and put her hands on her hips, presumably to keep them from going to her wand.

" _Malfoy_."

"Can't say no to the word if you can't look it up."

"You're being childish."

"Says the pot to the kettle."

"Will you give that back?"

"Will you allow my word?"

"No."

"Well then…"

"Draco!"

"Jean, you're being ridiculous." His tone was one she had taken with him several times in the past week. "You didn't say anything about not including wizarding words so, by your rules, it's a fair play. But I suppose I understand. This word would put me ahead, which puts  _you_  in a tricky situation." Her eyes narrowed. Draco fought the delight from his face and tried not to revel in early victory. "You might not be able to come back from this." He sighed and shook his head dramatically.

Her outrage was immediate and hilarious. "I… You… Nev –"

"Of course, you'd never admit it, and since I'm a gentleman" – he ignored her guffaw – "I won't make you. I will take back my word, and we can resume with your pride intact." Resignedly and with an expression that may have only been halfway convincing, he reached toward the game board.

"I know what you're doing." Her voice was a severe monotone. Draco paused, hand outstretched, and looked at her from beneath his eyelashes. He enjoyed her exasperated and competitive half-grin a bit too much and could no longer contain his fiendish smile.

"What ever do you mean?"

"You are  _such_  a Slytherin."

" _Me_?"

"And you know the worst part?"

"You wish you were, too?"

Hermione scowled him. "It's worked."

"I can keep my word?"

"Draw your letters. It's my turn."

He considered her for a moment. "Say it," he demanded, his tone curious and testing. Her brown eyes darkened and narrowed deliciously.

"You may keep your word," she said with false, Umbridge-like sweetness, "but no more wizarding terms. I'll win anyway, despite your cheating."

Draco sat back with a satisfied smile. "Malfoys never cheat, Jean," he mock-scolded her. "They simply play by their own rules."

"Rules that happen to be in their favor."

"Naturally."

Hermione grumbled and looked from him to her letters, proceeding to rack up another thirty points with a well-placed 'Z.' Draco countered and the game continued until Hermione laid her last letters. Unable to use his final letter – a damnable 'Q,' – Draco was forced to subtract ten points from his total score.

"Meaning that you lose by three points."

"Oh, try not to look so self-satisfied," he groused as Hermione cheerily cleared the board of spent tiles. "It was only luck – you had all the 'U's."

"I believe not playing them until the end is called  _strategy_ ," she quipped.

Draco frowned. "We  _will_  play again, Granger, and next time, wizarding words will be allowed."

"And I'll still win."

"We'll see."

Hermione smiled and glanced at the clock. "Spaghetti and meatballs okay for dinner?"

He shrugged. "Sounds fine."

"I should probably start the sauce. It has to simmer for ninety minutes."

As she walked to the kitchen, Draco had a thought so absurd and completely out of character that it came bursting out of his mouth before he could restrain it.

"Do you want any help?"

Understandably, Hermione paused and turned around to stare at him. Draco fought a blush: Malfoys never did work when there was a chance of it being done for them. Desperate to salvage the deteriorating situation, he amended, "Today was my night to cook, after all. But the rain, and the grill…" He tamped down a wince as Hermione continued to stare; he wasn't sure he had made it any better.

After what felt like an eternity, she ceased her intense scrutiny and shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Sure. You can chop the onion if you want." Draco nodded and reached for his wand, but then remembered: no magic. She read his gesture correctly and laughed.

"Yes, very funny," he deadpanned, skulking into the kitchen. "Chopping an onion with magic is simple. It'll take me an hour to do it by hand."

"I'm sure you'll do fine. Here." She set out the cutting board, a sharp knife, and a large yellow onion. "Have fun, but do be careful."

She turned away from him to open several tins of peeled tomatoes. Draco picked up the knife uncertainly and looked askance at her. He didn't want to admit it, but aside from routine potion preparation, Draco had not chopped so much as a carrot without the aid of magic. Now he had to do an entire onion with a significantly larger knife than he was used to. The task felt much more daunting than it should have.

But he was not one to give up, especially in front of her. He started slowly, cutting it in half first, then in quarters. There – it was well on its way to being chopped. Perhaps this was easier than he thought. With a self-satisfied smirk, which he was later thankful Hermione missed, he passed the knife through the onion and deep into the skin of his thumb.

The oaths he swore were so vile that Hermione actually said his name in scolding reproach.

"Damn your sensitivities, woman," he hissed, brandishing his bleeding appendage. "I've nearly amputated my thumb!"

Hermione frowned and moved into action quickly. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the sink, turned the water on full cold, and thrust his bleeding digit beneath the stream. He swore again and yanked backward, but Hermione's grip was firm.

"Quit being such a child. You would think you've never bled before."

"I've bled plenty, Granger. You have Scarhead to thank for that."

Her grip around his wrist tightened and, though she did not look up at him, Draco saw her entire face pinch in displeasure. He felt a weird mixture of pride and guilt. Yes, Potter had made him bleed. That damnable curse – he disliked even  _thinking_  its name – had brought him to death's doorstep. Sometimes he thought he could feel it, like Snape's countercurse, strong though it was, still fought the original intention. It was never more than a tingling on his cheek, or arm, or torso, or thigh, but it never failed to unnerve him.

"It's deep, but I don't think you'll need stitches. Do you have bandages?"

"Bandages? I'm a bloody  _wizard_. 'Do I have Dittany' is a more apt question."

"Do you?"

"No."

Hermione frowned. "Me neither. Though I may have a first aid kit…" She shut off the water and led him – still by the wrist – to the bathroom. "Take a seat and keep pressure on it," she ordered, disappearing into her room.

Draco looked around the small restroom skeptically and then, feeling foolish, took a seat on the porcelain throne. He reached over and grabbed a threadbare rag from the closet and wrapped it around his thumb. He tried not to look down, but failed. Though he was applying pressure – hell, he didn't hold onto a broom as tightly – blood soaked the rag, staining it bright red. A wave of dizziness and nausea rocked him and he groaned, closing his eyes and leaning back against the toilet tank. He had developed a very real dislike of seeing his own blood.

"Okay in there?" Hermione called from her room.

Draco took a deep breath and tried not to retch. Merlin, he could  _smell_  it, all iron and heat and life… "Just peachy, Granger. Move any slower and I'm more like to just scab up on my own." He attempted to sound annoyed but his voice shook too much to be entirely convincing. Eyes still closed, he felt more than heard her enter the bathroom. He was grateful for her silence.

As she took his hand, however, Draco opened his eyes. Her touch was gentle and soothing. She did not hesitate to touch him and was not shy about manipulating his fingers into the position she wanted. He watched closely, despite the blood, fascinated. Entranced.

"This may sting."

She tilted a small black bottle labeled 'Hydrogen Peroxide' over his cut, which, he saw with another roll of queasiness, was about an inch long. And then he swore because, sweet Circe's tits, it  _did_  sting.

"No chance of simply disinfecting and sealing it with your wand, eh?" he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Nice try, but I don't need my face swollen up because of that stinging jinx. One of us needs to be competent."

"I thought I'd had you there."

The smile on her voice was beautiful. "Better luck next time."

When his cut was through fizzling and foaming, Hermione patted the skin around it dry with a cotton swab and took a seat on the tub across from him. Their knees touched. She muttered an apology without meeting his eyes, but he couldn't really look at her in that moment either, so he stared at the one place he shouldn't: his damaged finger.

His hand rested upon hers, which then rested upon his knee, making him feel uncomfortably warm. She grabbed a cotton swab and gently applied antiseptic cream to the cut. Then she unwrapped a medium-sized bandage and, without ever touching the cotton pad, secured it around his thumb. Despite having finished with her first aid, she did not drop his hand. Her fingers lingered, warm and comforting, absently tracing the lines of his palm. He could see the faint blue of her veins beneath her skin. The same blue that riddled the backs of his hands and the underside of his wrists.

Funny thing, blood was. Necessary to survival and – in their world – the cause of a near-genocide. But was her blood really any different from his? He had seen her bleed before. Had watched in horror as his aunt's silver knife pressed into her throat and marred her smooth skin with crimson. It was just vibrant as his was, full of life and magic. He remembered that it had looked clean. A strange thought at the time, but it had been a strange time, too.

Maybe it was his  _own_ blood loss that prompted these thoughts, or maybe it was their proximity and the feel of her pulse trembling beneath his fingertips, but Draco suddenly found it ludicrous that he had ever believed them to be different. How had he ever thought she was less? How had he ever considered her  _dirty_? There was so much more to her than just blood. More, even, than the annoying chit he had known at school. Behind the self-righteousness and desperation for control was an actual  _person_ , flesh and bone and blood. Someone who was occasionally conflicted, but who was usually genuine and surprisingly sincere. Someone who doubted and lied, but tried her hardest to do what was best. She was  _human_. It was a refreshing discovery, though Draco knew it should have been obvious.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," she said quietly, interrupting and affirming his thoughts. She spoke to his hand, her fingers still traveling across his skin. Piled as it was upon his revelatory thoughts, the sentiment left him dumbstruck. It took him a moment to recover.

He cleared his throat. "It's all right. Perhaps my blood will give the sauce character."

There was a noticeable drop in temperature. So noticeable that Draco was surprised Hermione's face didn't swell, though the contract hadn't mentioned accidental magic, so maybe that shouldn't have been much of a surprise. Just as he was going to comment on it, Hermione's hands fell limply away from his, breaking whatever had been forming between them. She rose and left the bathroom without a word or backward glance, leaving Draco wondering what the hell he had said. He sat on the toilet for a moment longer, pondering, until he heard her take up the knife, wash it, and continue chopping onion, presumably not amputating herself in the process. He rose and watched her from the bathroom door.

Draco had always been decent at reading people but found that he didn't need to try very hard with her. Hermione's anger was barely masked by a poorly constructed calm, and they way she chopped the onion was violent, bordering on dangerous. He approached with caution.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she answered, not taking her eyes away from the knife. Her voice wasn't frosty, but it was certainly chilled. Too even, too controlled. Too unlike her. "Nothing's wrong."

Draco persisted. "You're lying."

"I'm not  _lying_ ," she growled.

"Then why the sudden change?"

"There is no change." She said forcefully, driving the point of the knife into the wooden cutting board. It quavered and danced in the light. Hermione looked up at him with diamond-hard eyes. "I'm fine."

"No you're not. What happened just now? What made you so cold all of a sudden?"

"The realization of how much time we were wasting." The excuse was quick and controlled. Another lie. "I just want to get this done. So either bugger off or open the tins. Unless you want to eat at midnight." She yanked the knife out of the cutting board and went back to her chopping. Draco studied her for a moment longer. Her cheeks were pink and she seemed to be working hard to keep her breath under control.

He stalked around the counter. What right did she have to be angry at him? He didn't even know what he'd said! It took all of his self-control to bite his tongue and remain silent as he worked with her. If he said anything else, he knew it would end in an argument, and with the weather being what it was, he would have nowhere to escape to. He could goad her into confessing what had gotten her knickers into such a twist, and while that would be entertaining for a while, he would achieve long-term success if he charmed the information out of her. Catching more Bowtruckles with wood lice than dragon dung and all that.

Draco peeked at her from the corner of his eye. Color was still high on her cheeks and her brown eyes were shining and rimmed red. His heart thrummed uncomfortably until he heard her sniffle, "Bloody onion." That was a relief. Reducing her to tears would have decreased the success of his information gathering later. He wouldn't do anything to compromise  _that_.

Dinner was a quiet affair, but Hermione seemed to have settled some. Except when Draco complimented the sauce.

What he had meant to be praise earned him an irritated look. Draco sat back in his chair as she stabbed at her pasta. His eyes narrowed as a theory presented itself. He scoffed and dismissed it, turning back to his plate. Of all the theories to have,  _that_ one was certainly wrong. Surely she couldn't think him so petty. He glanced up at her too-hard mouth and too-blank eyes. The thought presented itself once more, and Draco set down his fork.

Could she?

After they cleaned up – Draco offered to do much of the scrubbing, which seemed to put her in a better mood – he grabbed the firewhiskey, two tumblers filled with ice, and the Scrabble board. "Interested in a rematch?"

Hermione's eyes flickered between him and the half-read book sitting on the side table. For a moment, he thought she would say no. Then she looked out at the gloomy sky, the rain-spattered windows, and sat down at the table.

"Wizarding words are allowed this time," he said with a smile as Hermione set up the board. He poured them each a hefty helping of alcohol and pushed a glass toward her. "To a good game." He raised his glass and smiled again.

With only the slightest hesitation, Hermione lifted her own glass and smiled tightly. "To a  _fair_  game." They clinked cups, sipped, and drew letters, beginning anew.

Draco was amazed. He was amazed at the amount of firewhiskey it took to get Hermione properly sloshed: only two glasses. It usually took him around four but he held himself in moderation tonight and kept pace with her. He needed his questions answered, after all, and it would not do to addle his mind or body too thoroughly. He was also amazed at how gullible she became under the influence. It was like everything that had been holding her together, all of her restraint and logic, melted away, leaving a laughing girl with pink cheeks who could be convinced that any combination of letters was actually a word in Gobbledygook.

Her inebriation did not make his victory any less sweet, however. He smiled as she sat back and knocked down the rest of her drink, hardly wincing at the burn.

"I can't believe you actually won."

"I told you I would. You should have believed me." Suddenly, she squinted at the board.

"Something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, I just thought we played the same word twice. Strange."

He choked down a laugh. Double vision. Maybe it was the first time she'd experienced it. "Strange indeed."

As rain battered the windows, they settled into a comfortable silence. This was his opening.

"What was the problem earlier? In the bathroom?"

Hermione's mouth twisted. She looked into her empty glass and seemed to wilt. Then she leaned forward, set the glass on the table, and sighed. "You. Me. This." She gestured to the air between them. "We were getting along so well and then you had to go and bring it up."

"Bring what up?" he asked, fully aware of what her answer would be. The demented part of him just needed to hear it aloud. From her.

"Why we're different. Why you  _think_  we're different. My mother's sauce – my  _Muggle_  mother's famous spaghetti sauce. Perfect just how it is for everyone who's tried it, but not good enough for the pure-blood scion, even in concept. Nothing from that world will ever be good enough for you."

His theory  _was_  correct. She  _did_  think little of him. She continued, defeated, not noticing his stony silence.

"It just felt different for a little while, you know? Like maybe we were friends, or could be one day. And then you remind me that this isn't real. It isn't permanent. It's more like Stockholm Syndrome than anything else. A sick social experiment courtesy of our government. Because we're not friends, Malfoy. You haven't changed. And I… I just need to remember that. Sometimes you make it so difficult and I just can't help but…"

She sighed again and shook her head. Draco was desperate for her to continue. She took a deep breath. "This stuff works too well," she remarked, tipping her glass toward the half-full bottle of whiskey. "I shouldn't be telling you half of these things." Another shake of her head. "I need to sleep." She rose unsteadily and swayed for a moment before attempting the three steps to her doorway. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

She paused at the threshold to stare at him and his inscrutable face before frowning, nodding, and walking into her room, shutting the door.

Draco poured himself a full glass and scowled.

Even on only two glasses of whiskey, it was difficult for him to grasp exactly how he felt. Angry. Yes, that was obvious. Who was she to think so poorly of him? And from a silly, off-hand comment. He hadn't meant to upset their delicate equilibrium or insult her blood. He hadn't even considered it! Had he bought into the blood purity propaganda? At one time, yes, but he had been a child and had never heard differently, had never seen anything or anyone who could contradict that notion. After Hogwarts, after being bested by her in every single bloody class they'd shared, after seeing her prowess in handling the Horcrux hunt and the ensuing battle, how could he hold onto that prejudice? Hermione was a phenomenal witch. He'd never tell her that, of course, but how  _couldn't_  she know? It didn't make sense.

Or did it? At Hogwarts, he had been cruel to the two most important people in her world, and crueler still to her. He had told her repeatedly that she wasn't his equal, and that she never would be, no matter what the world believed. It was utter bunk, and he didn't believe for a minute that it had stuck to her. She had accomplished too much to put any stock in the idea of her inferiority.

But  _she_  couldbelieve that those notions had stuck to  _him_. What did a week with him prove? What did that show her? For all she knew, he was just being polite to lull her into a false sense of security. She probably expected him to go full-bigot on her any day now.

He couldn't expect her to see the change in him so quickly, especially when he hadn't done anything to conclusively prove that he  _had_  changed. He  _could_  expect her to be professional and polite, even friendly, and she had been. She was the perfect houseguest. But some wounds cut too deeply, some actions hurt too much to be forgotten or forgiven over the span of seven days, and some attitudes took more than just a  _lack_  of affirmation to realize as dismissed for good.

He had hexed himself in the damn foot.

Worse still was that he couldn't even defend himself. He desperately wanted to. He wanted to tell her that Muggle television was a wonderful invention except for that sponge show, that their novels were well written and intriguing, and that her mother's sauce was delicious and probably would have been even better had she not had to scrap half of the bled-on onion. He wanted to yell at her. To take her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. He wanted to tell her that  _she_  had come from the Muggle world and was widely considered the brightest witch of their generation. He wanted to tell her that if that weren't good enough for him, not much else would be.

He wanted to tell her that and so much more, but she wouldn't have listened even if he had tried. He may have even been able to convince her tonight, considering the state of her sobriety, but why should he? She may not remember it tomorrow, and he wasn't exactly sober himself. Anything he said could be dismissed as the ramblings of a sad and lonely drunkard.

If she were sober, she wouldn't have listened. Draco did not presume to know her – not at all – but he felt reasonably confident in believing that once Hermione formed an opinion, it'd be nigh on impossible to shake her of it. She would have taken his excuses as a façade for an elitist runaway trying to make it in a changed society. She would have pegged him as a liar, told herself that any kindness on his part was a mask, a screen, a shield. She would have turned herself against him without his help.

It was bloody frustrating.

It was exactly how she must have felt.

He set his tumbler down as the waves of realization hit. He couldn't talk his way out of her prejudices any more than she could have talked her way out of his. What worked to change him was  _proof_. Showing, not telling.

A slow smile spread across his face. He would prove it. He would show her – really and truly, once and for all – that he had changed. He would prove that he no longer bought into the blood purity bullshite. He would prove that they could be friends and that it could be a permanent state instead of a temporary partnership.

Perhaps that last bit could never be, but the whiskey made him hopeful and confident in a way he hadn't been in a very long time. He drained the rest of his glass and stood up too quickly. His head spun in a delightful way and he smiled.

If he could convince Hermione Granger that "zrrgle" was a word, then he could convince her that he wasn't the boy she had known at Hogwarts. It would take time, a large serving of the famous Black tenacity, and more than likely copious amounts of alcohol, but he could do it.

And so, Operation: Prove-to-Hermione-Granger-that-Draco-Malfoy-Is-No- Longer-an-Arrogant-Little-Berk commenced.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**June 9**

Draco shivered in the damp morning air and wished for the second time that he had had the good sense to put on a jacket. The rainstorm, which had restricted activity to indoor only, had moved out, but in its place was a stiff, chill wind. White and grey clouds mottled the sky, and the normally calm lake was rife with white-capped waves. They crashed upon the shore predictably, but not soothingly. They were too loud to be calming, and they were the exact reason he was awake now, before any reasonable person should be, including Hermione.

The alcohol had sent him to sleep quickly, despite the lake's roaring, but it wasn't a restful sleep. He had been plagued by disturbing dreams, from which he could recall only dark, writhing shapes, curling and unfurling like smoke from a cigarette, and a distinct sense of  _otherness_ , as if he were no longer himself, or even human. He had woken up just five hours later, tired but too on edge to fall back asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the shapes resumed their swirling, making him dizzy.

It did not take him long to give sleep up as a lost cause and determine that fresh air would make him feel better. He was wrong about the latter, unfortunately. The wind and waves did nothing to dispel his lingering unease. Instead, he was reminded of Hermione, of their conversation last night and his decision to set things right between them.

He scowled. What a foolish notion that was.

The whiskey had made the idea of proving he'd changed seem simple and elegant, but he hadn't really considered what he'd need to  _do_  in order to prove it. That was where he ran into problems. What could he possibly do to prove he had changed? Hermione had needed to best him in every class and help defeat Voldemort to change Draco's mind. To Draco's knowledge, aspiring dark lords were rare, and he certainly wasn't going back to Hogwarts any time soon.

Perhaps he could arrange to save her from a herd of rampaging hippogriffs, or stop an acromantula from devouring an entire town. Perhaps he could extinguish a fire that had erupted at a Muggle orphanage. He'd probably have to  _set_ the fire for that to work. The kitchen would probably be the best place to minimize casualties, maybe with a few well-placed shield charms for extra insurance.

Hermione's voice startled from behind him made him jump.

"It still smells like rain. And cattle."

He made a disgruntled, affirmative noise in the back of his throat. How had he ever thought she could be a reasonable person? Of  _course_  she was awake. His nascent scheming blew away with the wind, leaving frustration and despondency in its stead. The same wind buffeted her curls, slightly flattened after a night of deep sleep. He snapped his eyes away from her so as not to lose the ability to speak.

"Run-off from the farms," he explained tersely. "It all goes into the lake. Shouldn't swim for a few days." He shifted uncomfortably as she sat beside him on the edge of the picnic table.

"Too bad it's cloudy," she continued. "I bet the sunrise would be fantastic over the water."

"It is."

She took a sip of orange juice and shivered. "Chilly out here."

"Indeed," he snapped, "and the grass is getting long, too, if you care to point that out."

Unexpectedly, she smiled. "You're not a morning person. I forgot."

"Another keen observation," he grumbled. "You should have grabbed a jacket."

"Likewise."

"I'm fine."

She made an incredulous noise in her throat. One that Draco found no reason to acknowledge. They fell into a silence that, to him, seemed louder than the waves.

"Is there a reason you're out here?" he finally asked.

"There's a reason for everything," was her obscure reply.

He rolled his eyes; it was too early for that. "Not the first time whiskey made a sage."

"Oh, shut it. I feel fine."

Draco, however, did not. He had drunk that third glass far too quickly. His stomach felt sour despite the two antacids – another useless Muggle invention, apparently – he had taken.

"Then do get to the point."

"It's about last night. Do you remember?"

"Merlin, Hermione, we had a few drinks, not a bloody kegger."

She stiffened. " _Jean_. I want to make sure that you didn't take any of what I said last night personally. The whiskey…" She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I said some things I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry for that. If you could forget it ever happened, if we could just go back to… whatever we had before, I'd be very grateful. I mean, it's a tight fit in your cottage. I'd rather you not be cross with me while I stay with you."

Draco allowed irritation to swirl inside of him. Last night had been their first open conversation since… Since ever. Yes, she had been plastered, but few people had the courage for honesty when sober. He didn't hold that against her. In fact, he'd learned so much that he considered spiking her drinks regularly.

Hermione had misgivings about him. Okay, that was generous. She thought he was a bigoted scoundrel that would sooner spit at her than look. Had the confession stung? Yes, but how he felt about it didn't matter. That was her truth, and he respected it. He needed the critique. Despite expectations, Draco was entirely capable of stepping back and evaluating himself semi-objectively. He had been spoiled, coddled, and pampered for much of his life, given what he wanted and told what he wanted to hear. Obviously, that hadn't worked out very well for him. Yet he had never known anything different, so how could he change and know it would be for the better? Wasn't consistency better than trying and failing at something new?

He had thought it was until last night. Last night, when he had finally been given some sort of direction on how to change for the better.

But she  _regretted_  it. Wanted him to  _forget it. That_  was what hurt.  _That_  was what made him want to grab her and shake her and start a row. If not for the alcohol, she would have kept him in the dark, let him make mistake after mistake, and left with the same impression of him she'd had when she arrived. She did not believe him capable of change.

_That_  was utter bullshite.

He sneaked a glance at her and immediately wished he had not. Hermione looked as unsure as she sounded, embarrassed and vulnerable. His anger fizzled away, leaving a begrudging resentment, which he promptly buried. She couldn't  _see_. She couldn't  _know_. Not unless he showed her. It was a test, one that would require patience and practice to pass. He took a deep breath and began the trial.

"Consider it forgotten."

"Thank you."

Draco turned back toward where the sun should have been rising and tried to ignore Hermione's shivering. He was about to suggest that she go inside when she spoke.

"I was thinking we could go into town today."

He grimaced. "Were you?"

"One of our allotted trips into town – two hours maximum, as per our agreement. To be honest, I may go spare if I spend another day on that sofa."

"Tired of losing at Scrabble?"

" _One game_ ," she chided. "I shouldn't have let you get away with half the words you used last night. Gobbledygook… What the hell was I thinking?"

"For all you know, I'm fluent."

She scoffed. "We  _will_  have a tie breaker before this mess is over."

There it was again: impermanence. He frowned and stared up at the clouds. Had it gotten darker?

"What about the wards?"

"They'll hold without us, and we'll know at once if they've been penetrated by anyone magical."

Draco nodded. "I'll bring my gremlin. Should we expect an attack?"

She shook her head. "It's unlikely during the daytime. What I'm most worried about is exposing you."

"I go to town once a week. Besides, we've already been."

"The day after I arrived. No one else could have found you that quickly."

He arched his eyebrow.

"Not everyone can get access to the Canadian Ministry's registry," she said by way of explanation.

"You want to go, you don't want to go. It's safe, it's not safe. You could've had this conversation on your own."

She scowled at him, but he turned away, looking toward the horizon.

"I had hoped you would have something useful to contribute."

"You should know better by now." He knew as soon as he said it that he should have kept his mouth shut.

Hermione sighed, confirming his misstep. "We leave at eleven."

She rose and returned to the house. And he must have been going crazy, because it felt colder after she left.

He endured the chill for another hour, using it to clear his head. He needed to get himself under control, reign in the frustration she made him feel, remind himself that he was supposed to be convincing her of his decency, not reinforcing his boorishness.

At least he didn't have to worry about the beach situation for a few days.

At eleven sharp, they locked their wands into place and Draco stuffed the grumbling gremlin into his pocket. He tied on his trainers; Hermione opted for galoshes.

"You may want to reconsider your footwear," she advised.

He ignored her and grabbed his black windbreaker from the closet, pulling it over his layered t-shirt and thermal.

"Fine."

She grabbed her own jacket and pulled it over her jumper. They made their way to the truck through the six-inch-tall wet grass. Draco's trainers were quickly soaked through, as were the bottoms of his denims. The wet raiment added to his annoyance: he really should have tended to the lawn sooner. Though she didn't say it, Draco  _knew_  she was thinking "I told you so." He scowled as he opened the door for her and averted his eyes as she climbed into the cab.

The drive into town was uneventful. The highway and city roads had dried out considerably, though deep, muddy puddles remained in the ditches and probably would for at least another day. He pulled into the first parking spot he could find and set the truck into park. As he turned the ignition off, Hermione laid her hand on his arm. He looked over to her and found himself locked in an intense, dark brown stare. A thrill raced up his spine and he repressed a shiver that had nothing to do with his lack of warm attire.

"Remember to call me Jean," she said quietly, as if afraid someone else would hear.

He pulled away from her touch. "Yes, yes."

"Draco, this is serious."

"I'm not an idiot,  _Jean_. It's only town."

"It's a risk."

"You said yourself an attack during the daytime is unlikely."

"It is," she said, squirming, "but that doesn't mean it can't happen."

"Better make it a quick trip, then."

"Two hours maximum," she repeated. As if he needed the reminder. "And we're friends. Remember that, too."

Before Hermione could issue further instruction, he slid out of the truck. She followed quickly and looked up at him once they were on the sidewalk, a large smile plastered on her face. She acted the part so perfectly that, for an instant, Draco nearly believed it.

"So, where to first?"

Hermione kept up a constant stream of chatter as they walked up and down each side of the street. Draco answered all of her questions as best as he could and followed patiently as she led him into each and every shop. They never stayed more than ten minutes in any one of them. Unlike grocery shopping, Hermione was decisive in her souvenir hunting and knew almost as soon as she walked into a place whether or not she would be making a purchase.

It was remarkably easy for her to buy for her friends. A garden ornament for 'Virginia', out-of-place tropical shirts for 'Harold' and 'Rob' ("Purely for a laugh," she assured Draco when he pretended to retch into a beer stein shaped like a hollow stump), a painting of a sunset over the water for her mother, and a set of coffee mugs printed with a moose wearing sunglasses for her father. Draco was most skeptical of this last purchase, but wrote off the weirdness as a Muggle quirk. Hopefully one that wasn't contagious.

She clutched her bags close to her body. The weather had taken a positive turn. The temperature was still chilly and the wind had its gusts, but the sun had managed to peek out from behind the grey clouds. Several more cars were parked along the street, their owners perusing the same shops he and Hermione had. He was grateful they had finished; he had no desire to mingle with the townsfolk.

"Hmm, we still have an hour," Hermione said after glancing at her watch. "How about lunch?"

Draco shrugged and she took his apathy as acceptance.

"Let me just drop my things in the truck. I saw a fish and chips stand by the pier that looked promising."

He had seen it, too. "A shack, more like."

"Must you always be so negative?" she grumbled.

She brushed past him too quickly to hear his snarky, " _No_."

She led the way to the chip stand and ordered for them both: two baskets of fish and chips and two colas. Draco reached for his wallet but she was faster. "On me," she smiled, and handed the vendor exact change. In return, she got their food and two paper cups, lidded. He grabbed his share and she grabbed straws, napkins, a bottle of vinegar, and a saltshaker in addition to her food. Despite the unstable footing and the detritus brought on by the strong winds, she juggled her load without spilling and met him at a picnic table by the water. They were the only people on the beach.

She sat down across from him and tucked in. He stared at her and his food in turns. She noticed his hesitation and swallowed her mouthful before speaking.

"Don't tell me you don't like fish."

"No, fish is fine. But what's cola?"

"It's a Muggle drink – sugary, carbonated, and absolutely delicious. I think you'll like it."

"What flavor is it?"

She scrunched up her forehead. "Cola flavored. I don't know."

"What's in it?"

"Tree sap."

He shot her an incredulous look; she rolled her eyes. "Just try a sip."

He did as she watched in rapt attention. The taste was indescribable, but she was right about one thing: it was  _sweet_. And  _fizzy_.

"I get why you like it, if you like Sugar Quills so much."

"You like it?"

He considered the cup and took another sip. It was cold and bubbly, like a Whizbee without the levitation. He could certainly get used to it, but certainly could not admit she was right. She got that "I told you so" look on her face again, though it didn't bother him nearly as much this time. They ate in peace and sat for a while after they had finished, staring at the grey water.

"Why didn't you get anything for your parents?"

Her question made him frown. He looked at his cola and played with the plastic straw.

"Seems silly," he answered. "I'm not going back."

Wasn't he? The words sounded weak and uncertain. Hermione could probably hear it, too. He couldn't help feel that the doubt was mostly her fault. The more time he spent with her, the more he missed the world he had come from, and the more he considered that he might be ready.

"Well, I'll be going back sooner or later, and I already have the permits necessary to get past customs without any trouble. Why not just give them to me?"

He paused mid-sip. "Are you being sincere?"

Her look bordered on affronted. "Of course I am."

Draco leaned against the table, pensive. His mother was easy to shop for: she appreciated beauty and meaning, femininity and softness, grace. He had seen decorative tiles in the shop where Hermione had bought her mother's painting that Narcissa would have appreciated. Accented with cerulean, of course. Then he chuckled.

"What is it?"

"Nothing really," he said with the hint of a smile. "But, well, just what do you get a man like my father?"

Hermione smiled uncomfortably, giving Draco the feeling that he may have said the wrong thing. Again. He stopped, wary of digging himself in deeper.

The question was valid, though: what  _did_  one get a man like Lucius? He had everything he could ever want, and if he didn't, he could acquire it within a few days. Draco highly doubted the Ministry knew this. If they did, they would have realized what a complete and utter  _joke_  the concept of house arrest would be for his parents.

The Malfoy family had always been one of repute. Their partners and business associates consisted of lines as ancient as their own, 'new money' millionaires eager to stamp out a reputation for themselves, and small business owners who showed promise and, under Malfoy tutelage, often succeeded far beyond expectations. These connections literally spanned the globe, from the United States to India, to Australia and beyond.

After Voldemort's second rise and fall, Draco assumed his family name would be ruined. In England, it more or less was. They had not played a quiet role in Voldemort's ascension and, though they had played a pivotal role in his downfall (or Narcissa had, at least), people seemed to remember the former with greater clarity. When Draco and his mother received an outpouring of sympathy and support from their overseas associates after Lucius' arrest, he was thrown for a loop.

He shouldn't have been.

Countries, he reasoned later, were like businesses. Rather larger, true, but with the same general concerns, namely: economics and reputation. Voldemort's short-term rule had not crippled the economic clime of England, for which everyone, including their trade partners abroad, were grateful. This was half the battle. If the economy  _had_ been adversely affected, the second part of England's comeback – damage control – would not have succeeded half as well.

Though no one would openly accuse the British Ministry of downplaying the threat of Voldemort, that was, in essence, what had happened. The most feared dark wizard of their time was painted as a dangerous psychopath with a penchant for torture, but one that wouldn't bother anyone outside of England. It was dangerous in London, yes, but in Paris? Rome? New York City? There was nothing to fear, of course. Nothing to worry about. Lock your doors at night, stay away from dark alleys, travel in pairs whenever possible, blah, blah, blah.

It was all tripe, as far as Draco was concerned, but it was  _useful_  tripe. Their associates likened the Malfoys' involvement with Voldemort to a bad investment: smart if it had paid off, damaging but not fatal if it did not. With Narcissa at the helm, the Malfoy family remained one of repute. As she was just as business savvy as Lucius and infinitely more charming, Draco suspected it would remain so until the extinction of their line.

It was no wonder his parents were pushing the heir issue. The best gift he could get his father, in all honesty, was a woman pregnant. He shot a look at Hermione and quirked a smile.

Unlikely.

To his surprise, she picked up the conversation.

"Does he have any hobbies?"

Draco paused to think, and then resumed grinning. "He'd hex me for telling you this, but considering he's halfway across the world, I feel relatively safe."

"Never mind the murderous mysterio out for your blood," she muttered.

He chuckled. "My father is still the bigger threat. But he's always been fond of orchids."

Hermione's eyebrows shot into her hairline.

Draco laughed again. "He can't keep them alive, though. He's taken horticulture lessons, hired professional gardeners, built growth chambers, supplemented their soil with potions and fertilizers, left out buckets to catch rainwater for them… Species after species, nothing works. Mother says he should try keeping a cactus instead, but he just scoffs and buys another. It's more of an obsession than a hobby, I suppose."

"Why do you think he keeps trying?"

He considered it for a moment. "My father has always been able to get whatever he wanted, but orchids continually vex him. I think he may appreciate the challenge."

And, for the first time, Draco thought perhaps he understood Lucius' madness. It was an obsession, cultivating flowers. You had to create the perfect environment; water and feed without being excessive; prune but not destroy; nurture but not smother. Even then, the damned thing might not bloom.

"Do you think he should keep trying?"

Draco looked up from his half-eaten chips. "I do."

"Do you think it will work?"

"No, but I think it's healthy for him to fail now and again. Keeps the attention off me."

He meant the remark to be light and joking, but Hermione grimaced. She schooled her features into a more neutral expression, but it was too late: Draco had seen it. He flushed and looked away from her to the remnants of his lunch. Failure. Some days, he felt destined for it.

Without a word, Hermione picked up her trash and rose from the table, heading back toward the truck. Draco followed just as quietly. She waited for him to open the door for her and he waited as she slid across the bench seat. The engine turned over on its first try and he shifted into drive, turning onto the highway that would take them home.

"Wait. Your parents. Aren't you going to get them anything?"

He felt her eyes pierce him.

"No," he said with a grimace.

He saw her frown from the corner of his eye. It was a twisted, regretful expression, and in that moment, Draco wished his answer could have been different.

**June 10**

Draco wiped sweat from his brow, regretting that he hadn't mowed the lawn  _before_  it had rained enough to warrant an ark. The grass was not only long and thick but still damp from those two nearly apocalyptic days. He had thought one day would have been enough to dry it out, but a minute of shoving the mower through what he now considered a rainforest proved that idea to be bunk.

The back garden had not been so terrible. There were only two trees, so he was able to cut in straight lines. He did bag the grass, however, and it was a pain to haul it, wet and heavy as it was, all the way to the deck to toss it over onto the bluff. He had finished that task before noon, but not before the sun could rear its ugly head and shine with more zeal than Draco thought necessary.

It was now well past noon, and the day had turned unbearably humid. He shoved and steered the mower around the front yard, which was impossible to cut in any sort of pattern due to the trees. More than once, the blades caught on a root and the change in noise and pace brought him to a cursing halt.

The first time this happened, Hermione – who he  _swore_  had made an appearance just to see him perform a menial Muggle task – laughed. He scowled at her and must've looked just as ferocious as he felt. Her laugh devolved into a giggle, then a smile, then a bemused shake of her head and a retreat back indoors to escape the heat. She returned in time to see it happen twice more, and still smiled as if it were her favorite thing in the world.

He wiped more sweat off his upper lip. Maybe he should take off his shirt. A glance at the deck table – where Hermione sat reading and absorbing the sun, accompanied by a tall, perspiring glass of water – made him seriously consider the idea. She had seen naked male pectorals. She had to have, after spending a year camping with those two goons of hers. Hell, she had probably seen  _more_! After all, Potter wasn't the most subtle being on the planet and Weasley was, well, Weasley.

And there was a thought. He let go of the throttle; the mower's engine died.

Weasley.

They had been an item at Hogwarts. Hermione had been besotted with him, at least. The Weasel was blind and deaf as well as dumb to not have seen it until sixth year. But their seventh year… What had happened in that famous tent? Winter nights in the English wild were long and cold, after all. Horcruxes or not, the Golden Trio was still a  _human_  trio. She and Weasley had certainly been an item afterwards. He had seen enough  _Witch Weekly_  covers to have gleaned that morsel.

But what about now? He had arrived with her at Draco's front door, yet they had not seemed  _together_. The man had even insulted her. Admittedly, that didn't mean much. Hermione had put up with the ginger's bad manners for years. She had probably grown used to it. Though there had been something in her eyes that night. A coldness. An aloofness. He narrowed his own eyes, trying to think back, to recapture the moment, her look, her eyes…

"Draco?"

He jerked back to the present and realized he had been openly staring at her for over a minute. Subtle? Ha. He was about as subtle as Potter. He flushed, but his face was already so red that he doubted she noticed.

"Done mowing already?" she prompted.

The answer was obviously no. A quarter of the lawn still sported grass an inch above his ankles.

"Needed a break," he grunted. "It's still wet."

"That's what you get for procrastinating."

"Well, maybe if I had procrastinated a little longer, it would have been dryer."

"Or just longer. Or maybe it would've rained again. Wouldn't that have made your day?"

"Doing it by magic would've made my bloody day," he muttered as she hissed at him to be quiet. She glared at him and turned stoically back to her book. He sneered and kicked at a grass clump.

Inspiration – brilliant,  _deadly_  inspiration – struck.

Perhaps later he would claim that it hadn't been his hand hefting the fistful of compacted, wet grass. Maybe he would blame a mischievous spirit – Loki, Hermes, Anansi, she could take her pick – for taking aim at her head. But he would never,  _ever_  let anyone else take credit for the throw, which landed exactly where he wanted it to.

The wad struck just above her right ear, exploding spectacularly, showering her hair, her book, her arm, and her clothes with wet grass. She stiffened and then turned her head toward him.  _Slowly_. Without a word, she rose. Her hands were steady and her eyes hard, betraying nothing. She shook the grass from her book, retrieved her bookmark, and marked her place. She set it onto a grass-free bit of table and calmly made her way toward him.

Maintaining his composure was physically painful, but Draco managed, even as he held her gaze. She walked past him but stopped when they were abreast. She regarded him in absolute silence for a full minute, then turned her head and continued for the house. As she finally passed, Draco's restraint cracked.

He sniggered.

Not a moment later, a soft, wet something whumped into the back of his head. Pieces of grass trickled down the collar of his shirt.

"If that's all you've got, I –"

She grabbed his shoulder tightly, holding him in place, while her other hand smeared grass into his hair. The pungent, earthy, chlorophyll-heavy scent saturated the air and Draco knew, just  _knew_ , that his hair would change from blond to green by the time this ended.

"You've done it now,  _Jean_ ," he growled, scooping up a handful of sodden scraps.

She was ready and met him with another handful, this time launched directly into his face. He spat out grass and lunged for her, and she leapt away, as nimble as a deer. He sped after her, ducking as she tossed another clump, scooped up his own artillery, and chucked. She spun once, twice, the grass barely grazing her shirt, and threw wide of him. The game was on.

The moves and tricks they pulled came from nowhere and everywhere. Trees and bushes were cover, tossed sticks were hazards, hissed warnings about agreements and attacks were distractions. Draco called for a parley and, after hesitating, grass wad held high, she fell for it, approaching slowly. She reached arm's length away, ammunition lowered, and Draco struck, lashing out and latching onto her arm. She shrieked a laugh and pulled away, but he spun her closer, wrapping her into his body. She was warm and soft and so perfect, and his heart felt like it had expanded inside his chest, but this was war. He refused to be distracted by the hitch of her body as her breath caught in her lungs or the gooseflesh on her skin as he lowered his lips to whisper in her ear.

"Never mess with my hair, love."

He dropped the wet handful onto her head and rubbed just as she had. She shrieked, twisted, and almost escaped. Draco took what remained and stuffed it down the back of her shirt. She writhed and cursed him, laughing all the while, and he laughed too, until his stomach cramped and his cheeks hurt.

Then he heard her.

"Peeeete?"

They both stilled instantly.

"Peeeeete! Peeeetey, is that you?"

"Shite." Draco dropped the grass, the grin, and the girl. The last did not go far. Her nails dug into his arm. Her grip was so sharp he wouldn't have been surprised if she had sprouted talons.

" _Pete_?" she hissed. "A family name, no doubt?"

Draco was in trouble.  _Big_  trouble. Before he could reply, his neighbor – the only one he actually talked to, though usually not by his choosing – trundled into view. Her wispy white hair was cut short but still managed to stick up in weird waves. It bounced with her walk. Trotting next to her, as always, was her Samoyed, Big Red. The dog stopped short of them both and watched the exchange with intelligent eyes.

"Peeeetey! I heard noises!"

"Just a little fun, Estelle," he said placatingly, absently brushing grass from his shoulders and hair. He didn't bother dusting off Hermione.

"I should have known! You young folks, eh? Always laughing. My son was the same way." She eyed Hermione curiously and shot him a significant look. He caught the hint at once and cleared his throat.

"Estelle, meet Hermione. She's an old school mate of mine."

As Hermione raked her nails along his arm, Draco at once realized his mistake.  _Hermione_. Bollocks.

"It's very nice to meet you, Estelle," she said, extending her hand. Her voice held not a trace of anger.

"Oh, how lovely! And what darling accents you both have, eh! Pete never talks about his old school friends – I was beginning to think he didn't have any!"

"Not many worth mentioning, I'm afraid," she quipped. Draco bristled. Estelle just tittered.

"Such wit! So tell me – what was our Petey like when he was growing? Such a charming boy now, but so mischievous! Was he a real trouble-maker?"

"Oh, the stories I could tell."

Draco scowled and stalked away. He started the mower back up and shoved his way through grass and weeds half-heartedly. He didn't want to hear any more. He knew Hermione wouldn't say anything damning, but neither did he want to hear what she  _would_  say, what lies she would create, the past she would fabricate for them both.

Those 'what if' questions plagued him more and more recently. What if things at Hogwarts had been different? What if they had been friends? Would they have spent first year together, bridging that fabled House divide? Would he have taught her the ins and outs of being a witch, taken her home over the summer holiday and introduced her to the pure-blood luxuries he'd always enjoyed? Would he have deigned to visit  _her_  world? Meet her parents and experience a life he couldn't even begin to imagine? Would he have been at her side when she was petrified, worried that she might never wake again? Would he have taken her to the Champions' Ball? Would they have shared their first kiss?

The memory never failed to warm him. She had looked stunning that night in fourth year, every ounce of bookishness tossed away for ethereal blue robes and an elegant twist. Pansy had looked drab by comparison, and, when he kissed her that night, it was because it was expected, not because he wanted to. He had imagined it was Hermione's lips beneath his own. His secret shame.

The mower caught on a root. He swore and shoved it violently, lurching forward two feet as it dislodged.

It wasn't as if he were admitting to a life-long desire for her. There were other aspects of her personality that had rubbed him raw, not to mention the boneheads she called friends. But that night, when she could have easily been mistaken for a highborn? For his intended? It was a fantasy and – for that one night, for that single  _moment_  – he wanted .

The next day, when their less-than-fairytale reality dictated that he scorn her existence, he did so, and with more vehemence than before. He hated that he had wanted a part in her life, even for one night.

It wasn't fair. Little was.

He finished the lawn and wheeled the mower back to the shed. Estelle and Hermione were still chatting amiably. Draco avoided them both and went through the side door for a shower, a shave, and a glass of water. He would have preferred something stronger, but Hermione would not have approved and he was in enough trouble as it was. He took a seat on the couch and waited for her.

He did not have to wait long.

She closed and locked the door and peeked through the kitchen window, ensuring Estelle was home before drawing the curtain and stomping into the living room. She stood before him, hands on her hips, positively seething. He arranged his expression into one that was both bored and insolent, knowing it would infuriate her more and not caring that he shouldn't stoke her temper. He was supposed to be proving what an arse he  _wasn't_ , but the role of miscreant and ne'er-do-well was a comfortable skin. He slipped into it effortlessly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Draco kept his mouth shut. He had been on the receiving end of enough angry females to know by now that this question was rhetorical.

"Don't you think that informing me you were using a pseudonym would have been helpful my first day here? I've been calling you  _Draco_  for almost two weeks now, and everyone here knows you as Pete!"

"I've insisted upon Peter," he said mildly, "but she never listens."

"Never listens?" It was nearly a shriek. "Never listens!  _You_  never listen, you self-absorbed little ferret!  _Jean_ , Draco! You were supposed to call me  _Jean_! I've asked, I've reminded, I've done everything I can think of and still you don't care!"

This was his cue. "I do care. I'm  _trying_."

"Then what the hell was that with Estelle?"

"A mistake!" His skin slipped. Responsibility.  _That_  was a new feeling. "I made a mistake."

"You think?" She groaned and put her head in her hands, pacing around the dining room table. "Sweet Nimue, this has all gone to shite."

"You're over-reacting." Her head whipped up and around, brown eyes blazing with anger. "It's names, Granger. Just  _names_. Pete, Draco. Jean, Hermione.  _Grainer?_  For Circe's sake, that's hardly even trying."

"Bates approved it."

"I don't give a fuck what Bates did," he said with a growl. "It was a pathetic and useless attempt at cover."

"If you had just  _listened_ …"

"It still wouldn't have worked, so stop arguing it."

She cursed under her breath and collapsed into a chair. "It's not too late to go to Wales, you know."

He scoffed and took a swig of water. Wales wasn't even worth considering. Wales was an escape route, the coward's way, the path Hogwarts' Draco would have taken at the first sign of hardship. Wales meant giving up. Giving  _her_  up.

Damned if he was going to make that mistake. He had denied her potential for far too long and having her in his home was the best way to make up for that lost time, to attempt to answer all those 'what if' questions and know – truly  _know_  – her. An opportunity like this would never happen again. He couldn't risk spoiling it.

He wasn't through being fascinated with her yet.

All true, yet she would never believe it. Brimming with anger and disgust, he flung his glass into the cold, empty hearth, where it shattered to pieces, dirtied with ashes of the past. He ignored her surprised gasp and brushed past her, barely managing to mutter, "Yes it is," before slamming the door and leaving her alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, I love this chapter... Enjoy!!

**Chapter Nine**

**June 12**

It had been two days since Draco had flubbed Hermione's alibi, insulted her, and set his progress on 'Operation: Prove It' (a much catchier and memorable name) back by at least a week.

Two  _entire_  days. That was a lifetime for some insects. It felt like a lifetime for him. In fact, Draco was reasonably confident that he could have died sometime within that interminable interim without her noticing. She had avoided both looking at and speaking to him, and had shown no interest in starting.

It was not as if he didn't deserve it. After their fight, he had stormed out of the cottage and traveled well beyond the wards, fueled by frustration and humiliation. He came back shortly before sundown. He didn't expect her to be waiting at the dining room table for him with a cuppa and an apology like last time. Good thing, too, because she wasn't. She was on the couch, in fact, her nose buried deep in a book. When he asked with proper reticence where his dinner was, she did not reply. She ignored his whinging, too, when he checked the fridge to find that she had not made him one. Couldn't blame her for that either, but he was hungry and therefore irritable. More irritable than usual.

He made the point of avoiding  _her_  for the rest of the night and, as he collapsed into bed a couple hours past midnight and two fingers deep in Canadian whiskey, he was confident her anger wouldn't last. She was Hermione Granger, after all. Practically a saint. She was right to be cross with him, but tomorrow was a new day. She would get over it, forgive him, and they could return to the easy awkwardness they had almost been enjoying before he had made a complete arse out of himself.

The morning brought him no such luck. She met his unusually cheery salutation with stony silence. His offer to make her breakfast was met with the same (though it was a rather asinine question, as she had already made herself toast), and when he asked her if she wanted to venture down to the beach, she walked away from him as if he had not spoken. Later, she took lunch on the deck. Alone.

Apparently,  _practically a saint_  did not trump  _still a woman_. For some reason, Draco thought she would be different. Maybe he thought that putting up with those blundering oafs she called friends for going on a decade would make her immune to the stupidity of men. Or maybe he thought that, since he was Draco Malfoy and generally superior to other men, she would just cave to his way of thinking after a few hours of stewing. Clearly he  _wasn't_  superior, just as she  _wasn't_  immune. Hell, her ability to hold a grudge now rivaled Pansy's. A few more days and she would challenge Narcissa's black temper.

He stayed out of her way for the rest of that day, but was no longer content to wait around for her good humor. That night, he concocted a plan that would surely coax a sentence or two out of her.

Perhaps  _coax_  was inaccurate.

Draco planned to provoke Hermione until she snapped. Because fighting, after all, was better than absolute silence.

As she took another solitary breakfast on the deck, he eased open the door to her bedroom. It was ridiculous how uncomfortable it made him to see where she slept. It stirred his imagination and he couldn't help picturing her swathed in starlight, curly hair unpinned, all soft skin and even breathing. No accusing stares, no frowning lips, no bloody nagging. Just a woman, peaceful and lovely. He wondered if she snored. Maybe she stole the blankets. Hermione seemed like the type to sleep all curled up, tense even in rest, but the thought of her spread-eagle across the mattress, limbs hanging off the edge, made him smile. A girl so normally contained had to have an outlet somewhere. Why not in bed?

_That_  errant thought spawned a cornucopia of wild fantasies. He ran his fingers over her pillow and down the neatly folded coverlet, allowing himself one more moment to imagine it. Flushed cheeks, pert breasts, wetness and warmth in places he desperately wished to explore.

Then it passed. Hermione's nighttime habits – sexual or otherwise – were not for him to ponder. At least not when he had more important schemes to attend.

The phone was on her dresser. He grabbed it and scurried away. The phone book was already in his room, having taken up semi-permanent residence on the floor in the corner of his closet. He reached for it, dislodging a large spider, its web, and a significant layer of dust. He set the book on his nightstand and flipped it open. The entries were organized alphabetically by category and then by name, so it was not difficult to find the number for The Docks – the nicest restaurant Lion's Head had to offer. He punched in the numbers and held his breath as the call connected. To his great relief, a female voice greeted him on the other end. He told her what he wanted slowly and clearly, then hung up. The conversation took no more than three minutes. Tossing the phone book back into his closet, he scurried back across the hall, carefully set the phone in the same position he had found it, and went into the bathroom for his shower. He was just changing his clothes when she came in from her lunch.

She brushed past him on her way to the sink, not even sparing him a glance. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, watching her, gathering his courage. He was tired of trying to live up to her standards. Everyone would fall short of perfection, and he was about the last person on the planet who could stand next to her and consider himself her equal. It was time to be himself.

Bolstered by this, he spoke.

"You should know, Granger, that I –"

A cheery jingle emanating from Hermione's bedroom interrupted him. Her forehead creased in a frown. She brushed past him again and shut herself in.

"Hello?" she said. "Bates?"

Though it was easy to hear her from the kitchen, Draco wasn't about to miss this conversation. Bates wasn't supposed to call unless it was an emergency, and Draco wasn't sure he trusted Hermione to keep him informed of everything.

There was a long moment of silence – Bates was talking, he supposed – and then Hermione made a string of irritated noises.

"That's not a good idea... Bates, trust me, I've been cooped up with him for almost two weeks now. It's  _not a good idea_. He's too… unstable." Draco scowled and resisted the urge to bang on the door in anger. He wanted to see where this was going. "You're going to have to give me more than that."

Another long silence, another annoyed sigh. She tried to speak once, twice, but was interrupted. Finally, she growled, "I  _told_  you what I think. And for the record, you're mad for even suggesting it." Another short silence, another huff. "Very well. I'll do it, but I don't think – Fine…  _Fine_. Yes, I understand. Also, I think we should communicate more than once a week… Well, because Drac –  _Malfoy_ would be much easier to deal with if I had something to tell him… I know… I  _know_ … Well, if the battery is dying just plug it… No, to the socket. The  _socket_. Don't hang up. Don't hang up! Bates? Bates! Damn it!"

She snapped the phone shut, cursed, and snapped it back open. Buttons were pushed, and they must have been an unfortunate combination because she cursed again, loudly, and yelled his name. She yanked open the door and soon he was face-to-face with a positively  _livid_  woman.

He schooled his expression into something entirely blasé. "Something twisting your knickers, Granger?"

" _You_  are bloody twisting my knickers!" she seethed. "You used my phone! Who did you contact? How long was your conversation?"

"Yes, I was going to tell you about that. I booked a table tomorrow evening at The Docks. Seven-thirty p.m. Do try to look nice, will you? It's the only decent restaurant in this shithole town."

Her back stiffened. "You did  _what_?"

"Booked a table for dinner. You've heard of such a practice, yes?"

"I know perfectly well what you mean," she ground out through clenched teeth. "What concerns me is  _how_  you did it. Using my phone is in direct violation of Ministry policy and my privacy!"

" _Your_  privacy?"

"You went into my room!"

"Technically, it's  _my_  room. Just as this is  _my_  hallway and  _my_  roof. In fact, this whole bloody  _house_  is mine!"

"Well, that was my phone!"

"Bates's phone. He paid for it, if I do recall. You have a very skewed concept of ownership, Granger."

"And you have absolutely  _no_  concept of privacy! Or decency!"

"Just why should I allow the interloper in my life any privacy? What right do you have to it? You seem to be keeping enough private as it is! What the hell was that talk with Bates about?"

She stiffened again. "How much did you hear?"

"All of it," he snarled. "You were talking about my parents."

She crossed her arms. "So?"

"How are they?"

"They're fine," she bit out.

"And?" Hermione widened her eyes in a look of faux-exasperation. Or real exasperation. Yes, probably real.

"Bates wanted you to tell me something," he finished.

She tossed her hair and looked at him snootily. "He left it to my discretion."

Draco scoffed. "And let me guess: you've decided I don't need to know."

"I've decided that it's best for your safety if you don't."

"Why don't you let  _me_  decide what's best for my safety?"

"Because you're biased! You're tied too closely to what's going on, you obviously don't care what happens to you, and your temper could end up getting you killed and me sacked! You should just trust me on this."

"Why should I trust you? What reason have you ever given for me to trust you?"

Her mouth gaped, fish-like, for a moment, then settled into a fierce snarl. "Between the two of us, I thought it'd be obvious."

That stung. "You've gone too far there, Granger.  _Too. Far_."

She flushed, but stood her ground. "And so what if I have? Haven't you gone further? And can you honestly tell me I'm wrong? Dumbledore –"

"You snotty  _bitch_. Is that really how you still see me? Am I still Death Eater scum to you?" She started to reply, but he cut her off before she could get a word out. "That's what's wrong with you, Granger. I've been trying to figure it out ever since you got here, and now, it's so clear that it's a bloody  _wonder_  I hadn't noticed it sooner. You're so caught up in your own self-righteous ideas of right and wrong that you've  _stalled_. All this time,  _I've_  been worrying about changing, but now I see that I'm doing fine, and  _you're_  the one stuck in the past. You're so stubborn, so resistant to change, that you can't see it happening in front of you."

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it? Then why was Weasley so worried to leave you alone here? I'm one man, relatively easy to handle, but Weasley didn't think you could get inside my  _house_ , never mind all the way to bloody  _Wales_. And he was right, wasn't he? You may have beaten him in your practical trials, but I'd bet my family's fortune that when Potter needs a second, he chooses Weasley each and every time."

Her inhalation was sudden but quiet, and her words had lost much of their conviction. "That's not –"

A satisfied smirk twisted his lips, and he laughed – a short, victorious noise. "Hit it on the head, did I? It  _is_  the truth, Granger, and you know how I know it? Because you're no. Fucking.  _Fun_. There's no spontaneity in you, and no joy in a field where spontaneity is what makes an agent great. All you have is your plan, your rigid little protocol and your stupid  _behavioral contract_. And if anything changes, you're fucked, because you won't change with it. You  _can't_. That's why you're inferior. That's why you're no longer the best, and never will be again. That's why one day you're going to wake up and realize that you've been left behind."

His chest heaved and, for a wild moment, he felt invincible. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted her to feel the same misery and frustration he did. He wanted  _her_  to feel useless and inadequate and powerless for a change.

He didn't expect it to work.

Her jaw was clenched, but her chin quivered. The fire in her eyes was now a tremulous, glassy sheen. She took one step backward, then another, and then she turned and was gone completely. The screen door rattled as she slammed it shut, and Draco watched in awe and horror as she sat down at the picnic table and put her head in her hands.

How the hell had he done that? He had wanted to  _hurt_  her, not  _break_  her. He had only wanted a fight. He wanted the emotion behind her mask of logic, the truth behind her vague, dissembling words. He didn't want to send her running from him.

He didn't want to make her cry.

The sight of her hunched, shaking shoulders made him uncomfortable, and Draco cursed himself. Whatever progress he had made, whatever progress he had  _wanted_  to make, was now righteously buggered. Anything else he may have been able to come back from, but making Hermione –  _the_  Hermione – cry?

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. This was what ignoring her standards, what being himself, meant.

It was hopeless.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in his bedroom with only a book for company. When his stomach became impossible to ignore he ventured out and cooked dinner for two. He left Hermione's portion on a plate in the oven. He scribbled an awkward note ("Food in the oven; plate will be hot."), left it on the counter, and sequestered himself once more. She came in soon after. Draco dropped his book into his lap, shut his eyes, and rested his head against the wall to listen.

She scoffed, then there was the sound of paper being balled up and binned; she had found his note, then. The oven opened, and she withdrew the plate. Then there was the unmistakable sound of food hitting plastic. The clatter of porcelain and cutlery landing in the sink. Liquid heat pricked the corners of his closed eyes. Her rejection of his meal – his novice, pitiful attempt at a peace offering – hurt more than seemed reasonable.

The bathroom door closed, water ran, and the door opened again. The outside door opened, closed. She was probably on the picnic table again. Draco waited five full minutes before exiting his bedroom.

The cottage was far too quiet, and the small space seemed stifling and oppressive. The fading sunlight cast odd, elongated shadows on the wall, and the normally homey interior seemed dreary and dark compared to the bright orange and pink of the sunset. He sat on the couch despite his desire to go outside. He could watch her more easily from here.

Hermione was a fixed point in a constantly moving world. Bats dive-bombed moths and mosquitoes. A raccoon trundled across the yard and into a nearby clump of trees. A large spider emerged from its daytime refuge to re-spin its web. And there she was, on the table, staring out at the water, not moving a muscle.

She had been the backbone of the Golden Trio: reliable, clear-headed, and remarkable. What was wrong with that? Just because consistency wasn't a quality of his own didn't mean it wasn't one to be valued.

He was wrong, anyway. He lied when he said she hadn't changed. She had. He'd seen it. He  _noted_  it, for Merlin's sake, and it was her ability to change that made him think that he could as well. It had been wrong of him to blow her cover. Even if her alibi was a little ridiculous, he should have read and memorized it, instead of trivializing it. He shouldn't have used her phone. He should have respected her privacy. If he wanted to take her to dinner, he should have asked. Asked her like a man  _should_  ask a woman, instead of taking the decision away from her.

He groaned and rubbed his forehead. When had his self-control decided to take a holiday, and why hadn't it left him a note saying that it had gone?

Well, he was calling it back early. He had utterly buggered the past few days without it, and it was time to do some damage control. As much as capitulating and involving himself in direct confrontation were against his nature, there was nothing else for it. He had to apologize to Hermione, and he had to do it tonight.

By the time he was ready to act, true darkness had fallen. He approached her slowly, measuring every step, making sure she heard him. The last thing he wanted to do was sneak up on her. After the misery he'd put her through, it was all too likely that she would curse him into oblivion, and then further once the stinging jinx rebounded on her for the breach of contract. Though disastrous if it happened, the idea of it was humorous, and he chuckled quietly.

Not quietly enough.

"Found something else to mock, have you? Was this afternoon not enough?"

Draco paused for a moment, frowned, then continued to the picnic table, taking a seat beside her.

"I didn't think it would actually work."

Hermione whipped her head around to shoot him a glare even as he hid a grimace. That wasn't how he'd wanted to begin.

"That's the problem, isn't it? You think that since I'm  _different_  from you, I couldn't possibly feel in the same way. That I'm some sort of… separate  _species_."

Draco furrowed his brow. "What? No. No, that isn't it. That was never it. All that blood purity bullshite… You can't honestly think I still believe in that."

Hermione just shrugged and looked back out toward the lake.

He scoffed: not how he had wanted to begin at all. "Glad to know you think so highly of me."

"You should talk! After today, after the past  _three_  days! You've been –"

"I know, I know! I've been a right git, and –"

"A complete prat! Totally disrespectful when I'm just trying to –"

" _Listen_ , I don't want to fight any more. I just –"

"You should've thought of that before coming –"

" _Will you just shut it_?" he snapped, and she did, her teeth coming together with an audible click. She huffed and made as if she were going to stand, but he grabbed her arm before she could even straighten her legs.

"I'm not good at this, okay? Just sit there quietly. You don't have to listen, but I need to get this out."

She stopped struggling and set her chin, glaring at the horizon.

He studied her for a moment. Her long, curly hair was dark and glossy in the strange light of the moon. Her lips were pursed in annoyance but were not still; Draco imagined she was biting the insides of them. He wanted to tell her to stop, but the idea was foolish enough to break his concentration. He removed his hand from her arm, looked away from her, and spoke to the lake.

"I'm not going to say I didn't mean to upset you earlier today. I did. But I didn't know that I would hit such a sore spot. I… I apologize for that."

"You're not sorry you insulted me, but you're sorry about  _how_  you insulted me? That doesn't count as an apology, Malfoy. Don't bother if you don't mean it. You're just wasting time, otherwise."

He grabbed her arm again as she attempted to rise. "I do think you're different," he blurted. "But not in the way you think. The reason I wanted to upset you…" He sighed. "I'm not a nice person, and that's my problem, but I honestly didn't think it would work.  _Because_ you're different. You're  _Hermione_   _Granger_. You helped win a war. You don't care about what people like me think, and you shouldn't. You're better than that. You're  _above_  it."

"Because I am who I am, and did what I did, I'm immune to the opinion of others?"

Draco hesitated. "Aren't you?"

"You're as emotionally stunted as Ron," she said derisively.

Draco frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Hermione sighed and rubbed her forehead. "You know Ron and I were together, right?"

Draco nodded, noting the past tense.

"Well, after I finished Hogwarts, I joined them in Auror training. We'd been fighting together for so long that it just seemed logical for me to join them at the next level."

"Is it what you wanted?"

She shot him an annoyed look for interrupting. "That doesn't matter. It's what I'm doing now."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Doesn't matter? Who the bloody hell  _are_   _you_? Of course it matters. If you don't like it, you shouldn't be enduring it just to satisfy some little obligation, some misplaced sense of  _responsibility_  toward those two f –"

"It's a stepping stone. Is it what I want to do? No, not ultimately, but no one has attained a position as head of the MLE without field experience. Considering my history, becoming an Auror would validate everything I'd done before training started."

"Defeating the Dark Lord wasn't validation enough?"

"Defeating  _Voldemort_  was half luck. Impressive, yes, but we had help. And it's over. Now I have to focus on what  _I_ have done. What I've accomplished on my own. Aurors have to work alone sometimes and think on their feet. They have to adapt and break protocol and lie and –"

"Do everything I said you couldn't," Draco finished for her. He felt like a bigger fool with every passing minute. "But consider the source, Granger. Honestly, you shouldn't give two sniffs about my opinion."

"Normally, I don't. I would have ignored you completely if I hadn't thought you were right."

Draco stopped his jaw from hitting the ground, but just barely. "Come again?"

Hermione grimaced. "I trained with Harry and Ron, and it went fine for a while. Harry was a natural, and Ron… Well, he really came into his own. He's brilliant in the field: quick, intuitive, fearless… He's so impressive to watch. Other people started to take notice and compliment him on it." She half sighed, half laughed. "Ron's never been known for humility. Once he realized his own prowess, he took it upon himself to help out those he deemed less gifted."

"You?"

Another grimace. "Me."

"Bet that was a tough bite to swallow."

"I probably could've taken it better. Merlin knows I deserve some criticism after all I gave him in school, but Ron isn't known for his tact. His critiques were condescending. It was as if he viewed our training as a competition. He picked at me, hassled me, even mocked me. Called me stiff, programmed,  _robotic._ "

"You ended it to salvage what you could of your damaged pride?" His voice was more sneering than he meant it to be, but it made her turn to face him. She spoke quietly.

"You know how difficult it is to live with constant criticism. You know how it feels to never quite measure up. I might have been able to if Ron had kept it to work hours, but he brought it home. I thought I was immune to it, but one day, I just snapped. We fought, tried to tough it out for a while, but eventually, we just sort of… ended."

"He should have dropped it."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, he should have, but I think he was holding on to some bitterness. We're in the prime of our lives, and he finally discovers he's better at something than I am. He couldn't forget it, and he couldn't let  _me_  forget it either."

"Arrogant prat."

"Don't talk about him like that," she snapped. "It may come as a surprise to you, but I still love him. He's an amazing Auror, an amazing man, and I'm happy he's happy. We'll always be friends. This was over a year ago, besides. He doesn't sit in on my practicals anymore, and my instructors all think I'm doing well. Every once in a while, after I've had a bad day, I start to wonder again."

"And this has been a bad  _week_."

"I wasn't over it," she admitted. "Not like I thought I was. Somehow, though, it was easier to handle with Ron. He criticized because he thought he was helping me, or because he felt entitled to it. But you? You're my first big assignment. You hardly even  _know_  me. We'd hardly said ten civil words to one another before now. Yet after two  _measly_  weeks,  _you_  say I'm inflexible? When I haven't even had to  _do_  any proper fieldwork?" She shook her head.

Draco felt like an utter piece of shite.

"I was out of line," he said softly. "I had no right –"

"No, you didn't."

"I was angry. I wanted to upset you."

"And what better way to do it than to tell a truth I didn't want to hear?"

"Hermione, I –"

"Stop trying to make it better, Malfoy," she said with an exasperated laugh. "I know I'm better suited for deskwork and policy making than an Auror's fieldwork. I know that what I consider fun and fulfilling most others consider boring. I _know_. It's just who I am. For a while, I had just hoped that I could be  _more_. I see now that I can't. I should just accept it."

She inhaled sharply and nodded once, as if that was all it took to come to terms with the truth as she saw it. Well, Draco knew a different version of the truth, and it was high time she knew it, too.

Though it was insane and had a very high probability of being something he would regret for the rest of his pitiful, lonely life, he was  _certain_  he would regret it if he kept his mouth shut or walked away from her. This was quite clearly one of those moments that would never happen again. It was now or never, and the prospect of never was one he would not entertain.

He took a deep breath. "I think you're capable of more."

She quirked an eyebrow, her look understandably incredulous.

"I think you  _are_  more. You... You fascinate me."

She frowned and turned away, but he stopped her with two fingers on her chin. Gently, he turned her face back toward his, and locked eyes with her.

"Do you know you hum when you cook?"

He grinned at her furrowed brow. "Malfoy, please don't –"

"You do," he continued, "but I can't place the tune for the life of me. You're right-handed, but you like to have your drink on your left side when you read. I assume it's so you don't have to put your book down to take a sip, but sometimes you do anyway. I don't know why yet. You take four ice cubes when you drink lemonade, but more than six when you drink water. I tried it, and I agree: four is the perfect number. The lemonade keeps cool without tasting watered down. You like your toast nearly burned, your jam nonexistent, your eggs a bit on the runny side, and your tea with cream, one sugar. You are meticulously neat, inspect every piece of fruit you eat, and you always wash the dishes in the same order – plates, silverware, glassware, cookware. All that from two weeks of living with you. I'm sure that, if I ever have the privilege of going into the field with you, you'll astonish me even further."

"Draco, I –"

"Don't limit yourself, Hermione. Don't claim that who you are is set in stone, or let other people dictate what you are and are not capable of. Don't ever believe that you can't be  _more_ , because if you start, it'll take more work and more time than you can imagine to stop."

Her eyes shone and, before Draco could say anything else, her lips were on his. He froze, confused. He didn't remember moving, yet here she was, touching him, closer than anyone else had been in far too long. Her fingers were on his cheek, and her palm was cupping his jaw, and was she actually  _pulling_  him closer, or was that just gravity?

He was on the brink of finding out which when it suddenly ended. She pulled away from him. Her hand dropped from his face, and the severed point of contact made everything clear. She had kissed him.

_She_  had kissed  _him_.

He gasped and pulled her to him once more, kissing her without restraint, propriety be damned. She squeaked in surprise, and the sound turned into a moan as he slid his hand beneath her shirt to touch the warm, soft skin of her back. One hand returned to his face and the other twined into his hair, keeping him close, holding him together though he was about to fly apart.

Flying to pieces would have been entirely worth it. With her lips moving beneath his, and her body so close to his own, Draco realized how utterly mad he was for her.

He hadn't realized how desperately he had wanted this – this touch, this rush, this woman – until now. He had wanted this before he even  _knew_  he had wanted it, and now the feel of her skin beneath his hands and lips, the warmth of her body, the thrum of her pulse, her taste, her scent. It was far too much and not nearly enough. He wanted more of her, craved her, and moved his hand further up her shirt, to her stomach, to the tantalizing curve of her breasts…

Sweet Merlin, did he love her?

The thought was half-ludicrous, but what else could this be? It was so much more than fascination. He felt like he was spinning into the atmosphere, like there was nothing was holding him to the earth. He should've been terrified of it, but he wasn't because she made him feel invincible. She made him feel like the impossible didn't exist, like he could leap into the unknown without having to fear what it held.

Hermione made him feel like more than himself, like he had untapped potential only she could release.

She pulled away again, needing to breathe, he supposed. It was a fair reason to stop. His own chest heaved as though he had just swum to the States and back. But how much oxygen did one  _really_  need? He lowered his lips to hers again, sank into her, held her tightly, and didn't understand the pulling-pushing sensation in his arms and on his chest.

He broke away and saw that she had maneuvered her hand between them, the minx. He groaned his approval, dipped his head once more, but the hand splayed across his chest kept him at arm's length.

"No, Draco."

She might as well have spoken Russian. All he heard was his name and her husky voice. All he saw were her kiss-pinked lips. All he could comprehend was her sweet, honey-nectar taste. He moaned her name and lowered his head, but she dodged his lips, pushing him firmly away. She twisted her body away from his wandering hands, readjusting the hem of her shirt to cover what he had exposed.

"This can't happen." The desire in her voice melted away, replaced by a professional, clinical tone Draco immediately and thoroughly despised.

"This can't  _happen_ ," she repeated. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She shuffled backwards, her apologetic expression lost in the darkness. Then she clambered off the table and hurried back toward the cottage, leaving him alone and confused, unable to quite figure out what the hell he had just done.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**June 13**

Once more, Hermione avoided him like the pox. Draco had known today would be awkward, but he didn't think it would be bad enough to prompt her to listen at doors. She must have been. How else could she have managed to shower while he was at the beach or eat lunch while he took his own shower? The only evidence she had emerged at all were the freshly washed dishes in the rack by the sink and the smell of her soap in the bathroom. Otherwise, she holed herself up in her bedroom. Draco heard so few sounds from within that he feared she might be dead. But seven-thirty – the time he'd booked their table for – was fast approaching, and they needed to leave soon in order to make it, dead or not.

He hadn't considered cancelling. The only thing he regretted about last night was that it had ended. If she wanted to make it awkward, then that was her prerogative, but he was determined to talk to her about it, even if it was at the restaurant. In fact, the more public the place, the better it would be for him. Hermione disliked public rows as much as he did and wouldn't storm out on him if she feared he'd make a scene.

It was seven o'clock when Draco decided to quit pacing around the kitchen and knock on her door. He had taken barely two steps toward it when she emerged.

Hermione's hair fell about her shoulders in soft curls, the bulk of which she had pulled away from her face. He didn't look at her head for long, though. The cut of her sundress – empire? Scoop neck? Like he knew! – was low without being lewd, sexy without being blatant. The straps were wide, but he could still see the gentle slope of her sun-kissed shoulders. There was not a tan line in sight, and the memory of why made him stand a little straighter. The hem of the dress hem stopped just above her knees, and the whole look ended with a pair of wedge-heeled sandals. As modest as the dress was compared to what was in fashion (that is, what Draco had seen many Muggle town-girls wearing), it was the most revealing clothing she had ever worn in front of him. As simple as the pattern was – white with dark blue trim and accents – she made the garment look stunning.

He felt drab in his light blue oxford and khakis.

The compliment he meant to give her – "Hermione, you look beautiful" – came out instead as a half-grunted chuckle topped off with a lopsided, undoubtedly dopey-looking grin. He cleared his throat, grabbed the keys, the ward gnome, and his wand, and turned on his heel in the opposite direction of her puzzled expression. It was luck and luck only that the opposite direction happened to be toward the front door.

As hard as he tried to ignore her, there were times when the feat was impossible. When he locked the door after her, for instance, he couldn't help but smell her perfume. When she led the way to his old truck, he couldn't resist watching her pick her way across the pitted and uneven lawn. The sight was quite comical, unaccustomed as she was to walking in heels. When she stumbled, he nearly lunged for her. She recovered before he could reach her, though he was spared the embarrassment when she wobbled a second time. He was next to her in an instant, offering his arm. She took it with the smallest of sighs.

He managed to avoid looking at her all the way to the front door of the truck. But then she had to climb in. He opened the door, as expectant and excited as a teenager caught in a cresting tide of hormones, and was surprised when she glanced back at him with raised eyebrows. He looked back at her innocently. She sighed again, rolled her eyes, and hefted herself up. Fortunately for her (unfortunately for him), her modesty remained intact.

The next time he was forced to make eye contact was when they had placed their orders and the menus had been taken away. They were seated at a private, two-person table, and had no choice but to stare at one another. Hermione picked up her water glass and took a small sip, clearly uncomfortable under Draco's gaze. She broke the silence first.

"You keep staring like that,  _Pete_ , and you're likely to set me on fire."

"Set  _you_  on fire? Like you did to me last night?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed bright pink. The color suited her.

"I apologized," she hissed quietly.

"Don't bother if you don't mean it."

"Who says I don't?"

He smirked. "Exactly who kissed whom last night?"

"Shut  _up_. It was a mistake. I didn't mean –"

"To be such a cocktease? Too late."

She glared at him and started to frame her retort when her purse began to chime. Though no one else in the restaurant seemed to mind or even notice the noise, Draco thought it was terribly conspicuous. Hermione, too, looked shocked and embarrassed. She grabbed her bag and practically sprinted to the loo.

Draco scowled and leaned back in his chair. Awfully rude, it was, to leave someone alone at the dinner table. In the middle of a conversation, to boot. He used his straw to stab moodily at the lemon wedge at the bottom of his glass. Not like their conversation had been going anywhere. It had been well on its way to dissolving into another argument. Depressing, though, that she still managed to run away from him in public.

Just as quickly as she disappeared, Hermione returned.

"I thought you had better manners than that," he said quietly, after a sip of water. He set down his glass. "I never thought –"

"Draco, we need to go."

His heart stilled. Her tone was tight and uncompromising, and her expression was just as anxious. She threw a few coins onto the table and stalked toward the exit without waiting for him. He threw his napkin onto his chair and followed just as swiftly. He caught up to her when she was about twenty feet away from the truck.

"Where are we going?"

"Home," was her curt reply. "Get in the car. Come on."

"No." He stopped, still at least three feet from the cab. Hermione put her head in her hands, pressing them tightly to her forehead.

"Please, Draco. Don't do this. Not now."

"Just tell me why. I'm not moving until you tell me what has you in such a snit."

She was in front of him before he could blink, her hand on his arm, placating, quieting. The contact made him jumpier. "You're causing a scene."

He looked around and, indeed, there was one squirrel staring at them as if they had stolen his winter cache and a few blackbirds glaring at them from a nearby branch.

He scoffed. "Just tell me."

"Use your  _head_ , Draco. Who has the number to my phone? Why would this person call me at eight p.m. on a Saturday?"

His eyes widened. "My parents."

"Yes, your parents," she said tightly. "Now may we leave?"

Draco's whole existence seemed to telescope and the panic in her voice suddenly lodged itself inside his chest. In two steps, he was at the driver's side door, jamming the key in the lock. He turned it so fiercely it almost snapped.

"In!" he barked.

She whispered something that sounded like, " _Finally_!" and had barely cleared the gearshift when he followed, accidentally sitting on her skirt and hiking it up to her mid-thigh. It was funny: just thirty minutes ago, the sight of that thigh would have been his whole world. But that seemed incongruously far away now, and her thigh – marvelous though it was – did not matter in the slightest.

She yanked her dress back as he slammed the door and shoved the key into the ignition. The truck turned over on its first try. He jerked it into reverse, then drive, and sped through the city. By the time he hit the highway, they were up to speed and gaining steadily. Hermione, meanwhile, pounded furiously on the keys of her phone, alternately holding it to her ear and swearing a litany that would make most ogres blush.

"What's happening?" he all but snarled at her.

"There's been an altercation," she said without hesitation. "At approximately half past midnight – around seven thirty, here – the wards of Malfoy Manor were triggered. Magical Law Enforcement was alerted immediately and a team deployed. Your parents, against orders, ventured onto the grounds to confront the intruders themselves. Spells were fired."

"Damn it, Granger, I don't need a fucking play-by-play. Are they injured or not?"

She sucked in a deep breath. "Your father was hit with a nasty hex on his left leg, but it's been seen to. He'll be fine. Your mother is unharmed." Draco's chest relaxed the slightest bit. His parents were alive. That was good, but it wasn't enough.

"Did they get them? The intruders?"

"No. I can't reach Harry or Ron, which makes me think they may be in pursuit."

"Fuck. I should have been there. I should have been there!" He pounded the steering wheel with one hand; the truck shimmied.

"No, you shouldn't have. And slow down!" She braced herself against the door and the dashboard as the truck squealed its way around a bend in the highway. Draco hit the accelerator again; there was no way he was going to slow down. Not when his parents had just been attacked.

"Has the Manor been secured?"

"I don't know."

"Hermione!"

"I don't know, Draco! I don't know! I only know what Bates told me. We were disconnected before he could say any more."

Their exit appeared out of the growing twilight and Draco jerked the wheel. Hermione braced herself again. "Slow down, damn it! You're going to kill us!"

"Shut it, will you! My parents have just been attacked!"

"It happened over half an hour ago! They're fine! It's over! We just need to get to a secure location until we know more!"

"Then you shouldn't mind my driving!"

"I would greatly mind  _dying_ ," she snapped. "A fine surprise that would be for them, to find our corpses in some obscure, Canadian ditch!"

"You don't know what you're talking about! We're perfectly fine!"

As soon as Draco said it, he knew he was wrong. Because there was that turn – that sharp, blind turn which had tipped him over once before when he had taken it too quickly. They were practically flying into it. He mashed his foot on the brakes, which squealed and ultimately failed. Hermione screamed as the truck careened off the road.

Gravity shifted, and they were flying, tumbling, spinning, landing, bouncing, rolling. Glass shattered, metal screeched and crunched, and then, with one great, final, bone-shaking crash, they came to a halt upside-down. The truck's engine whined, sputtered, and died. A pathetic wheeze was the last sound Draco heard before the cab faded to black.

A lifetime passed. His vision blurred, then sharpened. Piece by piece, Draco remembered, in increasingly agonizing detail, what the hell had happened. He groaned and brought his hands to his head. It throbbed beneath his fingers, and for a brief moment, he wished for unconsciousness. He shook the thought away, regretting even that small action, and looked to his right.

Hermione was still strapped to her seat and was regaining consciousness. She moaned and looked for a second like she was going to faint or throw up, but all she needed was a moment to remember what had happened. She turned her head toward him.

"Are you okay?" she muttered.

"Been better," he replied with a grunt. He flicked his wrist, withdrawing his wand.

"We need to get to the house."

"No shite." He pointed his wand at the belt.

"Don't!" She glared at him, and he winced.

"A little louder, would you, Granger? I don't think I've quite got my hearing back yet."

"Stinging jinx!"

" _Fuck_ ," he snarled. "Fuck you and your fucking agreement."

He pounded the buckle with his fist and braced his upper body against the roof of the cab. Once the latch gave, he slid down but maintained his leverage. He reached out to try the door handle, yanking and swearing, but it wouldn't budge. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Hermione attempting to loosen her restraint, too. It was going well, except for the fact that her dress had ridden to her past her waist and was practically hanging over her face.

And that was how he first saw Hermione Granger in knickers. White, bikini cut, lace.

He smirked. "Nice, Granger."

She growled. "Bloody lech."

"At your service."

"Kick out the back window. I want out of this thing."

He rolled his eyes and braced both feet against the small panel of glass. "The only window that didn't fucking shatter."

"Just our luck."

With one swift kick, the pane popped out, leaving no jagged edges. Draco turned and eased himself up and out, then crawled on his belly from beneath the truck. Hermione followed close behind. He held out his hand to help her from the wreckage and to her feet. She looked terrible. Her dress and knees were smudged with dirt, her hair was in complete disarray, her right arm was cut up and down its length, bleeding freely, and there was a cut on her lip that was starting to swell.

"I feel like you look," she remarked, and Draco grunted, dropping her hand and stalking toward the ditch face.

He pulled his way up using clumps of thistle and weeds for handholds. He didn't care about the pain of the nettles in his skin. He was in enough bloody pain as it was – his head pounded, his shoulder felt stiff, he was bleeding from gashes on his forehead and chin. His entire body felt as though it had been pummeled by Bludgers and tackled by a dragon. Stinging palms were the least of his problems.

"What about the truck?"

He ignored her.

"Draco, the truck!"

"Leave it!" he yelled back. "I don't bloody need it anymore."

She caught up to him at the driveway, heaving herself along with a pronounced limp. He looked down. Her right leg was bleeding, and she had lost a shoe.

"What do you mean you don't need it?"

"I'm going back to England," he barked. "I need to be with my family."

"No! That's exactly what they'll expect! We need to stay here until we have more information."

"You are more than welcome to!" he spat.

"Draco!"

She grabbed his arm, and he rounded on her. They were less than ten feet from the front door.

"You've invaded my home, my mind, my life, and my sanity. I've gone along with it as best I could, but now I'm done. I'm going back to England  _tonight_ , safety be damned!"

"You shouldn't –"

A small, shrill voice cut her off. " _ONE_!"

"NO!" Hermione shoved him hard in the chest before he could even realize what was happening. He staggered backward just as a beam of sizzling yellow light flashed before his nose.

Instinct kicked in faster than he thought possible, and he sent a volley of curses into the darkness. Hermione did the same, and what ensued was an intense but silent battle. Their spells were no louder than wind through leaf-covered branches, but they lit up the night – blue, purple, pink, red, blinding white, deadly green. Their assailant was swift and well hidden by height and trees, but two against one were poor odds for any wizard, especially if one of the two was Hermione Granger or Draco Malfoy. A Stunner finally landed home and a body crashed into the ground. Draco lowered his wand.

"You okay?"

Hermione was breathless and singed, but otherwise uninjured. She nodded. "You?"

"Fine."

They approached the body cautiously. Hermione never took her wand off him. With a silent spell, a thin shaft of light illuminated his face. There was a small pop, and two lights the size of fireflies zoomed away.

"What was that?"

"Photo. One copy will go to the Canadian Ministry, the other to ours. They'll cross-reference his picture with those on file, though it'll take a while for them to arrive. Let's get him inside, quickly."

Draco nodded once and aimed his wand. Quick footsteps sounded in the woods to their backs, coming from Estelle's house.

Hermione swore and shoved her wand back into its holster. Though it went against every instinct Draco had, he followed suit, though not before binding and Disillusioning the unconscious man at their feet. The dark leather of the holster disappeared not a moment too soon. Estelle rounded the corner, wearing only a tattered pink robe and yellow slippers. Her hair was rolled into light blue curlers.

"Pete? Hermione? What's going on? There were lights! And flashes!"

"Oh, you saw it too?"

Draco looked askance at Hermione, then it clicked.

"I think it was the aurora."

"Definitely a meteor."

"All of those colors – reds and greens…"

"Lit up the whole sky. Swore I heard a splash."

Estelle looked from Draco to Hermione, and back again, her face the portrait of suspicious confusion. Or confused suspicion.

"I don't think –"

"It really was an unusual thing, wasn't it, Hermione? Hard to say what it really was, eh?"

"A UFO, perhaps. I'm really not sure, but I'm glad you saw it, too. We thought we were going crazy!" His and Hermione's laughter could not have sounded more forced had it been tortured out of them. Estelle's eyes remained narrowed in suspicion. Their laughter trailed off.

"Well, back to bed, I suppose."

"At eight o'clock?" Estelle asked, incredulous.

Hermione shot Draco an annoyed look.

"Yes, well, it's been a long day, and I, that is,  _we_ …"

"Is that blood? Petey, what's happened? Should I call the ambulance? And darling, your dress!" The Disillusioned man behind them groaned. Estelle's sharp eyes widened in alarm. "What was that? What's going on here?" The old woman was becoming panicked. Draco looked over to Hermione, who bit her bottom lip as if she were weighing her options. Suddenly, she twisted her wrist. Her wand appeared in her palm.

"Estelle!"

The old woman's attention shifted to Draco.

"You don't have to worry. We've just –"

" _Obliviate_."

Hermione said the spell softly and only sustained it for thirty seconds. When it ended, Estelle swayed for a moment. Hermione caught her by her arms, steadying her. She smiled as Estelle's blank eyes focused on her face. Despite the smile, Hermione spoke sternly, as if she were giving orders.

"You thought you saw a meteor, Estelle, but you were wrong. It was just fireworks set off by some kids on the beach. You came over to see if Dra-  _Pete_  and I saw them too, but we were out. You never saw us. You're going to go home now. You're going to give Big Red a treat, then you're going to go to sleep. Tomorrow, this is going to seem like a strange dream."

"I'm going home now," she repeated weakly. "Red? Big Red?" Estelle turned around and toddled back home. Hermione remained tense until she was out of sight, then let her shoulders slump.

"He's waking up. We need to get him inside before anyone else comes around."

Draco stared at her, slightly dumbfounded. "Why did you do that?"

"Draco, this isn't –"

"It's a mound of paperwork for you, using magic on a Muggle. You could face an inquiry. You could –"

"Lose my job, yes, I know. But I didn't see another option, did you?"

"Maybe if you had followed my lead with the meteor story…"

"Ha." She shook her head ruefully. "I don't think I've ever heard a worse lie."

"Then you weren't listening to yourself, obviously. We're not nearly north enough for an aurora of that magnitude."

"The Muggles would've known of a meteor  _that_  large. They have satellites, ways to detect objects falling at them from space. They're not idiots. But you… Thought you heard a splash…" She barked a derisive laugh. Draco scowled. "Not like we need to worry about it anymore, anyway."

"No, and neither does she," he said pointedly.

Hermione fidgeted. "Stop looking at me like that and bring him in," she said softly. "There's protocol to follow."

She entered the cottage first and, one by one, blacked out all of the windows. With a neat swish-and-flick, Draco levitated the man into the house. Hermione closed and sealed the door behind him, then soundproofed the entire cottage.

"Into the chair."

Draco lifted the illusion, deposited the man into the nearest chair, and bound him again with thick ropes. For the first time, they got a good look at him. He was about six feet tall with shaggy black hair and a thick coating of scruff along his cheeks, chin, and neck. Despite the dark circles beneath his eyes, he looked well fed. His clothes were all black and of high quality. Not dragonhide, but nice nonetheless – well within the price range of a few dozen Galleons.

Draco was about to reacquaint the man with the land of the living, but Hermione laid her hand on his wand arm. "He's in custody. This is a Ministry matter now."

"I have questions that need to be answered."

"As do I, but I'm the only one with the authority to ask them."

" _Bullshite_!"

"You're a  _civilian_ , Draco. Your assistance is appreciated, trust me, but I can handle him from here."

Hermione gestured sharply with her wand. A wizarding video camera called a Spyglass appeared on the table. She took his arm and led him to the side door, motioning for him to leave. He turned on her and crossed his arms, staring down at her with all the anger he could muster, which, after what he'd gone through tonight, was considerable indeed.

She sighed. "I know you want a piece of this bastard. I would, too. But if you lay wand on him, he could take you to court, and there won't be anything I or anyone else can do to help you. If you compromise this interview in any way, he could be let go on a technicality. A  _technicality_ , Draco. I know this is hard, but please, you have to let me do this."

"You can't expect me to just sit back and wait!"

"That's  _exactly_ what I expect."

"But –"

"This is the best lead we have right now," she interrupted. "If you want to follow it, it has to be by the letter of the law. Otherwise, we might as well let him go now." She fixed him with a hard look.

"I don't like it."

"It doesn't matter what you like. This is how it is."

He sighed and uncrossed his arms. "Make it quick. Tell me everything."

"Thank you, Draco." She pressed her hand into his forearm and opened the door for him. He walked out into the night and turned to watch Hermione disappeared behind a wall of black.

He gave her a minute – a full sixty seconds of compliance – before he unsheathed his wand and set to unraveling her wards. Hermione's window charm was more intricate than he expected, but he managed to restore the glass to semi-transparency: he could see them, but they could not see them. The sound wards were far more complex, so Draco carved a small hole from the glass instead of wasting his time.

Satisfied with himself, he took a seat against the door and watched as 'Ministry-Hermione' appeared in full force.

She took a seat at the table, across from the unconscious stranger and out of the camera's view. She spoke in a clear voice.

"Date: June 13, 2001. Time: Eight thirty-seven p.m., Eastern Standard Time. Location: approximately twelve miles southwest of Lion's Head, Ontario, Canada, residence of Draco Lucius Malfoy. Investigating Officer: Hermione Jean Granger, junior officer with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement under direction of Detective Aaron Thomas Bates the Third.

"At approximately eight fifteen p.m., EST, Mr. Malfoy and I were attacked by this man, identity unknown. Mr. Malfoy and I responded with nonlethal force, and I subdued him by use of the stunning spell 'Stupefy,' which I am authorized to use in a situation of great peril, as outlined in Article 3.14-Z in the Magical Law Enforcement Officer Code of Conduct. After subduing the assailant, I took his picture and sent a copy to the Canadian and British Ministries. I then took him into my custody and transported him into Mr. Malfoy's residence, with permission. What follows is the waking and interrogation of the assailant according to the protocol laid forth in Article 5.7 in the MLE OCC. I have cast a translation charm on the domicile in the event the assailant is non-English speaking."

Hermione paused, took a deep breath, and aimed. " _Ennervate_."

The man's eyes fluttered open. His consciousness caught up with him quickly. He jerked upright in his chair and looked about him wildly. Hermione smiled with false sweetness and began.

"My name is Hermione Granger. I am a junior officer with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in London, England." She flashed her credentials. "But, as you tried to kill me, you already knew that information, didn't you?"

The man glared at her; her eyes tightened.

"That's what I thought. Let's begin with your name."

He was silent.

"Your name, sir.  _Now_."

His silence persisted. Just then, a mote of light no bigger than an insect zoomed through the wall and landed before her on a blank piece of parchment. With a quiet crackle, like the sound of paper being un-crumpled, the page before her filled with writing. She glanced down at it and smiled.

"No matter. That's the wonderful thing about government, wouldn't you agree, Mr." – she glanced at the paper again – "Guy Laurier. Alias" – she bit back a laugh – "Jacques Cousteau? Clever, Mr. Laurier. Very clever. Born in Padoux, France, on March 30, 1960. Never married, no children. Permanent address in Munich, Germany. Quite a change, wasn't it, Mr. Laurier, from rural to urban. Trying to hide in plain sight?"

More silence.

"No need to answer, actually. I can see here that here's an outstanding warrant for your arrest in France for murder." Her eyes narrowed as she read the details. "Wizard on wizard crime is reprehensible, but wizard on Muggle crime is simply disgusting. You can imagine the sensitivity we Brits feel toward the subject, no? As much as I would love to extradite your arse to France this  _second_ , Laurier, you festering sack of dragon shite, I'm afraid I can't. Not before I get my answers."

The ice on Hermione's voice gave Draco chills and, though the situation was too dire to allow for a proper erection, he was significantly turned on by her authority. Though he did think she was going about it in the wrong way. He had been watching Laurier the entire time. The man was a statue. He wasn't going to tell her anything with a trip to a French prison in his future.

"However," she continued lightly, " _if_ I get answers, and  _if_  these answers satisfy me, maybe my good recommendation would soften your stay in France. I know the Minister personally, you know. Monsieur Pourleau." Laurier's expression, which had been nothing but stoic, flickered. She noticed and pounced.

"Yes, Pourleau is a good friend to both me and my supervisor. We've worked with him on several cases, and with the head of France's law enforcement department. They're reasonable men, Laurier, and you'll find that I can be a reasonable woman when given what I ask for. Understand?"

Laurier hesitated and then nodded slowly.

"Excellent. Here's how this will work. I will ask questions, you will answer honestly and immediately. If I suspect you're lying, I have the authority to administer Veritaserum. I will use force if necessary. An Imperius Curse from my wand would hardly make my supervisors bat an eye. Your full cooperation will go very far with me, Laurier. Have I made myself absolutely clear?"

He nodded again, and Hermione sat back in her chair.

"Why did you come here?"

The look he gave her was so insolent that Draco nearly shot to his feet. Hermione never looked away, never flinched except to tap her wand slowly on the table. After a long moment of silence, in which Laurier was clearly weighing his options, he spoke.

"I came here for the Malfoy boy." His voice was heavily accented, but the translation charm made him easy to understand.

"Could you be more specific?"

"There is only one."

"A name, Laurier. I need a  _name_."

"Draco. Draco Malfoy."

Though there was no question of Laurier's target, hearing his name spoke aloud was like a hammer to the gut.

"Were you here to kill him?"

"No. It was  _you_  I was trying to kill."

Hermione chuckled; Draco scowled. It was a bad idea to confess attempted murder on camera to the woman who held his future in her hands. Apparently, Laurier was not as bright as Draco had thought. But Hermione, ever vigilant, did not give anything away.

"You wanted Draco alive, then?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Money."

"How much?"

"One thousand Galleons."

"Who is paying you?"

Laurier shrugged.

"You don't know?"

He shook his head.

"I find that hard to believe," she deadpanned.

"Believe what you want."

She paused for a moment, considering. "This was a job. Someone put a contract on Draco Malfoy's head. How did you come upon it?"

He shrugged again. "I have my connections."

"Who?"

Another shrug. Draco was a shrug away from bursting through the glass and throttling the man with his bare hands. Hermione stayed calm and flicked her wand. A small vial of clear liquid zoomed into her open palm. She shook it delicately, a potent reminder of the power she wielded.  _All your secrets could be mine_ , she said without speaking,  _and you'd have to be mad to think I won't use them_.

The threat worked. Laurier swallowed and cleared his throat, his eyes wide and cautious.

"I don't know who they are. I was contacted by owl. A man, I think. Squid."

Hermione quirked her brow. "Squid? That's his  _name_?"

"As far as I know."

She was silent for a moment, then fired off a barrage of questions, all answered in quick succession.

"When did you receive this owl?"

"A few days ago."

" _When_?"

"June 10, around one a.m."

"Was it a public owl?"

"Private."

"Was there a return address?"

"No."

"How were you to be paid?"

"Owl post. Gold. Upon receipt of the boy."

"Where were you supposed to deposit Mr. Malfoy?"

"I don't know. I was to send proof of capture first and wait for further instruction."

"Proof?"

"An eye."

Draco blanched; he was quite fond of his eyes. That detail meant that whoever sent Laurier was cunning. It was not easy to replicate a body part, especially a part as unique as the eye.

"Do you have any idea what Squid wants with Mr. Malfoy?"

"No."

"Is there anything else you think I should know before I end this interview?"

The vial twinkled in her fingers. Laurier's beady eyes considered it, then locked with Hermione's.

"I've told you everything I know," he answered evenly.

Hermione stared at him for a full minute, then nodded. "Very well. Thank you for your cooperation. Thus concludes the interrogation of Mr. Guy Laurier, alias Jacques Cousteau, by Hermione Jean Granger."

She turned off the camera with a tap of her wand, then pulled out her phone and pressed two buttons.

"Bates? It's Granger. Malfoy and I were attacked almost thirty minutes ago. A man named Guy Laurier – I've already got his information, and I sent a photo to your office… Yes, we're fine. Took him out with a Stunner… Interrogation is finished, though I'm sure processing will want to do their own legwork… Yes, I need a unit… As soon as possible… Sooner than that… An  _hour_?" She sounded very put out. "Very well. Aurors and officers, I think. Keep this quiet for now. He's had problems in France."

She glared at Laurier, gave Bates a terse goodbye and snapped the phone closed.

"About France…" Laurier started.

Hermione sneered. "Do you actually think I have the authority to negotiate clemency? You killed a  _Muggle_ , Laurier. A defenseless  _Muggle_. You may not know, but  _I_ am Muggle-born." Laurier blanched; Draco felt a swell of pride and a fierce, vengeful glee. "I fully intend to make sure you experience the exacting precision and extreme ferocity of the French justice system, and I won't feel one bit of pity for you, as I'm sure you didn't feel any for the man you killed. Besides," she smiled venomously, "I heard the Château d'If is lovely this time of year."

Laurier paled further and began yelling in broken French and German. Draco understood bits and pieces of it – most was not complimentary – and he was about to silence the man himself when Hermione twirled her wand and took the man's voice.

Her chair scraped the floor as she pushed herself up. Draco backed away from the door as she joined him outside.

"Thank you for staying out of this," she said quietly. "I didn't get much out of him except for a name."

"Squid," he said. "Obviously an alias. At least, I don't know anyone by that name."

Her mouth dropped open. "You  _bastard_! You listened at the door! But my wards! How…"

She turned around to stare at the sliding glass door, which was still semitransparent. She gasped when she noticed the small hole drilled out of it.

"The attack broke our agreement," he explained, trying not to smirk.

"Laurier had the right to a private interview!"

"That bastard forfeited his rights when he tried to kill us."

"Kill  _me_ ," she corrected testily. "Only  _capture_  you."

"Oh yes, and that's such a relief. He was only going to take one of my bloody _eyes_."

"This could cost me my job!"

"You're so dramatic, Granger." With a few flicks of his wand, Draco restored full opaqueness to the door and repaired the drilled hole. "I won't tell if you don't." He challenged her with a look. She crossed her arms and glared, then groaned.

"You've made my life so difficult."

He smirked and took this as acquiescence.

"That clemency lie was a big risk."

"It worked, didn't it? Even if I did have the authority to lighten his sentence, I wouldn't have wasted it on scum like that. I only  _hope_  France sends him to d'If."

Another delicious chill raced up Draco's spine at her cold words. The Chateau d'If was comparable to Azkaban in terms of size and location and was manned with the cruelest guards the country could find. It took a serious crime to get transported there, and an even more serious vendetta to wish it upon someone. In this case, however, Draco ardently hoped Laurier's sentence would be for life.

"The team should be here in an hour. We should get back inside and wait. Once they pick him up, we'll go to Wales and draw another agreement."

Draco let out a short, barking laugh. "Weren't you listening before? I told you: that's not going to happen." He turned and walked toward the deck.

"Why wouldn't it?" she asked vehemently, following close behind. "Draco, be reasonable. This man was sent  _from_  England. There's someone there that wants you! The more distance between you and whoever is after you, the better. We'll increase the number of guards at Malfoy Manor and set up another safe house for you. We can be out of here in just a few hours, and –"

"I've been away for too long," he said quietly. The lake was bathed in all the colors of the sunset. Two kayakers cut across the placid water, making their way homeward. "I should've done this two years ago."

"And just how do you think you're going to get there? Trans-oceanic Apparition is extremely illegal and even more dangerous, and I don't have the time or authority to arrange a Portkey. Just wait until the Ministry retrieves Laurier. I'll call Bates and we can arrange –"

He reached out and found Hermione's hand, interrupting her rant.

"It's time, Hermione," he said evenly. "Stay or go, that's your decision, but it had better be one you can live with."

"Draco! You can't –"

He closed his eyes and tuned her out. He concentrated on his memories – the soaring architecture of his childhood home, the rolling fields behind it, the orchards, the stream, the woods. He pictured the foyer, the opulence, his parents.

Draco pivoted. Something clamped tightly onto his arm, but he was not to be distracted.

He was going  _home_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

**June 14**

The Apparition lasted too long. Seconds instead of milliseconds. Minutes, maybe. Draco had no idea and, even though his body felt denser than a dying sun, it was quick to flood with panic.

Something was wrong. Something  _had_  to be wrong. Each heartbeat shoved blood through his compacted arteries, and it hurt so much that he thought he might die from it. The pressure in his skull made him wonder if the blackness that composed this world was simply nothingness or rather a result of his eyeballs imploding.

Could he be stuck? Could this be limbo? He'd rather die than be trapped for eternity like this, excruciatingly compressed and cursedly conscious.

He had just begun to catalogue the finer agonies of breathing when it stopped. He re-inflated and was never so happy to see the familiar stone of the Manor's foyer appear beneath his feet. He landed with a jolt, remaining upright, but not without a fair amount of wobbling and staggering. His first breath would have made him cry out in pain if he had had any oxygen to spare, but overwhelming relief and a sense of pride quickly overcame the ache. Not only was he whole, but he was  _here_. He was  _home_.

No sooner had he let out his first, shaky breath than did he hear a small, surprised, "Drac- Oh!" from his right. He looked over just in time to see Hermione collapse.

If his body had been working properly, he would've tried to catch her, but he wasn't sure his own legs would hold him upright much longer, let alone support her dead weight. Instead, he watched her fall rather gracefully to the floor, wincing as her skull cracked off the stonework.

Footsteps pounding on marble sounded behind him. As quickly as his body would allow, Draco unsheathed his wand and cast a shield around himself and Hermione, assuming a defensive stance.

No sooner had he raised his wand than did his be-robed father round the corner with a roar and a flutter of dark tartan, casting a Stunner of surprising strength. Narcissa was more creative with her wandwork, shooting a hex so powerful that it made Draco's shield quaver. Another hex and a curse barraged him in quick succession. Draco staggered back a step at the force, lacking the strength needed to stop them for much longer. A few more spells like that would do them both in. Lucius brandished his wand, one of those deadly spells right on the tip of his tongue, but he was interrupted by Narcissa.

"No, Lucius! It's him! It's Draco!"

She lowered her wand and rushed forward, but Lucius threw his arm out to stop her before she could take two steps.

"It might not be, Narcissa."

Her pale blue eyes flashed against Lucius' steely gaze. "You foolish man. Who else could it be? Let me by!" She shoved away from him. Lucius grabbed her by the hem of her sleeve, ripping the pale silver silk almost to her elbow.

"Where did you cast your first spell?" Lucius asked.

Draco smiled and lowered the shield from around himself; he kept the one around Hermione intact. "Your bedroom, on Mother's Ming vase. I believe the pieces are still embedded. Have you repainted, or are the walls still that atrocious yellow?"

Lucius grinned, lowered his wand, and unhanded Narcissa.

"That color is not atrocious," his mother scolded, her voice thick.

She rushed into Draco's arms. Having been away from her for so long, it was strange to be near her once more, but the sensation lasted only a moment. His mother was so familiar, so right, that he relaxed, letting his guard down for the first time in three years, feeling instantly younger, like he was once again a child being comforted after taking a spill off his broom or losing a much beloved toy.

After a moment that lasted too long and not nearly long enough, they separated. Narcissa dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, while he dashed his own tears away. Lucius looked discreetly at the floor, then looked up to meet his son's eyes.

"Father, I'm sor –"

"No, Draco," he said sternly. He grabbed Draco's forearms. "This is not the time for apologies. We are both glad you're back." With a reassuring squeeze, Lucius let go of his arms and stepped back.

"Fools," Narcissa scolded gently and embraced Draco once more.

Lucius laughed softly, but it soon trailed off into a quizzical sound. Draco dislodged himself from Narcissa to follow his father's gaze.

Hermione. Of course. Draco finally withdrew the shield, and Lucius nudged her chin with the toe of his shoe. He lifted her face to the light, his wand aimed at her somewhat halfheartedly. Her expression was peaceful; if not for the blood on her face, arm, and leg, her split lip, ruined dress, missing shoe, and the light coating of dirt over her entire body, she could have been sleeping.

"Ms. Granger, I presume?" Lucius asked.

"Yes."

"I remember her being considerably noisier last time we met."

Draco laughed outright. Narcissa swatted at his arm in mock reprimand and joined them in staring at her unconscious body. "She was significantly less bloody last time, too. As were you, dear," she said to Draco, fingering his shirt. "What happened?"

Draco shook his head. "Later, Mother. I'm sure she'll want a say in it."

Narcissa tutted. "You should have known better than to Apparate here with an uninvited guest."

Draco rolled his eyes, though could not argue the point. The Malfoy property was rather finicky about who was allowed into the Manor. Guests, when accompanied by a Malfoy, could Apparate onto the grounds with no ill effect, but if they tried to Apparate into the Manor itself, ancient wards flared and the guest was rendered immediately unconscious, like Hermione was now. It was a clever protection against anyone hoping to threaten a family member for his or her riches. Apparating into the family vault – which was almost always the goal of the more insipid thieves – solved the problem of burglary before it began. A trip to the family dungeon once the thief awoke ensured that the 'mistake' never happened again.

If a guest was Trusted – an honor granted only to close family friends – he or she could Apparate anywhere onto Malfoy lands with impunity, including the Manor's foyer. Guests who attempted to Apparate into the Manor or onto the grounds and were neither Trusted nor accompanied by a Malfoy were sent to a very small boulder in the Mediterranean Sea. Draco could not remember his father making a visit to that boulder within Draco's lifetime.

"I didn't know she was coming."

Narcissa frowned. "Well, to the front door next time, perhaps. Though maybe we should consider her a Trusted, Lucius?"

He ignored his wife's query. "Are you sure it's her?"

Draco considered her for a moment, recalling their week together. Her stillness when curled up with a book; the glow of her cheeks after too much whiskey; the shine of her hair in the strange light of the moon; the warmth of her skin beneath his cool fingers…

He cleared his throat. "Father, it could be no one else."

Narcissa shot him a look askance but remained silent as Lucius muttered the counter spell and hid his wand. It took a moment for Hermione's eyelids to flutter open and another for her to realize where she was and just who she was staring up at. She gasped and scuttled backward, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Don't be cruel, Lucius," Narcissa snapped. "Draco?" She shot him a significant look.

He took the hint, moved past his father, and knelt at Hermione's side. "Granger?"

She flicked her eyes to him, seemingly unwilling to let Lucius out of her sight for more than a second. Lucius clenched his jaw in annoyance but softened when Narcissa took his arm and sighed… dreamily?

Draco shook himself and refocused. "Granger?" He took her chin between his fingers, turning her head to him. Her body trembled. "Are you all right?"

"No, I am not bloody  _all right._  What happened to me?"

"The Manor is an old house, Ms. Granger, and its wards even older," chimed Narcissa, unable to restrain herself. "Uninvited guests cannot Apparate directly into the house. Hopefully, my son will lead you to the  _front doors_  next time." Her tone had been friendly until that last bit. Draco shot an annoyed look over his shoulder.

"Hopefully, your son will  _think_  before doing something as dangerous and impulsive as transoceanic Apparition," she ground out. "I –"

"You should not hold your breath, Ms. Granger," came Lucius' half-amused drawl. It was his turn to receive Draco's glare, but the older man simply raised a platinum eyebrow. Lucius had  _invented_ that glare. Draco turned his eyes back toward Hermione.

"How is your head?" he asked before anyone else could reprimand him.

"Tender," she groused, probing the back of her head with a wince. "Pounding. But I'll live."

"Please join us in the study, Ms. Granger. There will be a potion for your head there, as well as some refreshments."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione said as Draco helped her to her feet. He kept his hand on her elbow as she wobbled. "I'm fine, really. I just need –"

"Ms. Granger, you have just been revived after falling unconscious because of a hasty transoceanic Apparition, done in response to what was obviously some sort of –" Narcissa gestured to her and Draco's clothes – " _attack_. The study is warm and comfortable. You may tidy yourself up there, take your potion, and tell us how you succeeded in delivering Draco back to us in less than a month when Lucius and I have been failing for years."

Hermione stood gaping for a moment. Draco shuffled nearer to her and mumbled, "It's best not to argue, Granger. Mother always –"

" _No_."

The word echoed through the foyer, and Draco froze. No one had ever told his mother  _no_. It was at once a privilege and a sacrilege to see it now. As Narcissa slowly turned around, he felt Hermione tense. He wondered if she really knew what she was doing. He shot a look at his father, who smirked and shuffled a few inches away from his formidable wife.

"Thank you, but no," Hermione continued, formidable in her own right. "I have to get to the Ministry; they need to be debriefed before anyone else. Draco?" She turned and hit him with the full force of her doe-brown eyes. "Please, not a word about it."

"Granger, they have a right to –"

"This report could end my career, and Merlin knows I'm in enough trouble from earlier. I know it's difficult, but please, I need this."

He was more than ready for an argument, but Narcissa cut him off.

"Of course, Ms. Granger, we understand perfectly. After the kindness you've shown us and Draco, a little patience is more than due. But soon, yes? Perhaps over afternoon tea?"

Hermione nodded, though it seemed to cause her considerable pain to do so. "As soon as I can manage."

"Very well. At least take a potion before you go, as amends for my son's barbarism." She twirled her wand, producing a vial of mauve liquid. She snatched it before it could even start to fall toward the floor and pressed it into Hermione's hands. She uncorked and downed it without hesitation. Relief spread across her face and throughout her body like a cloud revealing the sun. With a deep breath, she smiled.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I must ask another favor: may I use your Floo?"

"By all means. Draco, darling, show Ms. Granger to the Relay. Join us in the West Wing when you've finished. We have much to discuss."

"Yes, Mother."

"Do come back soon, Ms. Granger."

Hermione returned Narcissa's smile and held it as she took Lucius' arm and disappeared down the hallway.

Draco waited until they were out of hearing range to sigh and run his hands through his hair.

"How are you? Really?"

"The potion helped, but I'd be a lot better if I didn't have so much to explain to my boss," she snapped. She began marching down the main hallway. "The Muggle, the unattended prisoner, the Apparition…"

He caught up to her in two steps, took her elbow, and led her down the correct fork. "I didn't ask for you to Side-Along, you know."

" _Obviously_."

He let go of her and fumed silently, content to drop behind as she made her way through the Manor's maze-like halls. Her progress was strangely halting. She seemed to miss every other step and her head moved as if it were on a swivel, turning right and left with almost dizzying speed. A few times, she craned her neck for a peek around half-opened doors into dark, gloomy rooms. He was about to mock her when it clicked.

He caught up to her and grabbed her arm again, weathering her frustrated huff when he tugged her to a stop.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She set her chin and glared at him. "Talk about what?"

"What happened here. What I saw. What my aunt –"

"There's nothing to say. It's in the past." She wrenched her arm out of his hand, but did not travel far. He tugged her to a halt once more, suddenly much angrier than he had any right to be.

"That doesn't mean it's over," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Can you make it through the night without waking? Can you close your eyes and not hear her laughter? Can you even look at me without feeling a shadow of the pain?"

Her brown eyes sparked. "Can  _you_?"

He curled his lip and tossed her arm away. He made it no more than five steps away when she spoke.

"Where did it happen?"

If he hadn't been listening to her talk for almost two weeks, he would've missed the slight quaver in her voice. He stopped and spoke over his shoulder.

"Downstairs, to the north. It used to be a lounge." She was silent, so he continued. "Mother repainted and replaced the floor, even reupholstered the furniture, but some stains penetrate too deeply to be covered or removed. She sealed the room."

He heard a trembling sigh and started walking again. He didn't want to face her yet, not with the memories of the night of her torture fresh in both their minds. They reached their destination a few minutes later. Draco stood by the door, gestured Hermione in, and waited for the customary expression of surprise.

With her wide eyes and gaping mouth, she did not disappoint.

Since he grew up in the Manor, the Relay was normal, even boring, to Draco. To others, it was an oddity. If he looked at it objectively, which he attempted and partially succeeded at doing now, he could understand her fascination.

The Relay's walls were made entirely of fireplaces. Some were large and opulent, capable of comfortably transporting a family of three, with marble hearths and intricate engravings. Others were hardly large enough for a grown man and so filthy that it would take an entire day of spells to discern the color of the brick. Many of the Floos had specific destinations. There was one to the Lestrange household; it had been boarded up and disconnected long ago. There were two to France (one to their summer property and another to his grandparents' home), one to the Black ancestral home on an island just northwest of Scotland, and one to a modest, Unplottable safe-house on a remote Greek island, should they ever need it. There were several piles of inconsequential riffraff strewn about for Portkeys, and a few cloak racks, some still with cloaks.

He grinned and touched her arm, breaking her from her inspection of the room. "You'll want this Floo," he said, leading her to a well-worn, medium-sized fireplace. He grabbed an urn from the mantle and held it out for her. She ignored it and turned to him instead.

"I'm sorry your homecoming had to happen like this."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugged. "I needed the motivation."

"That's a strange way to see it."

"Well, it's a strange situation. My parents seem pleased, anyway."

Hermione chuckled. "Narcissa looked about ready to snap when I said I couldn't stay."

"You're the first person to say no to her in years," he said, the awe in his voice not entirely insincere. "You'll have to repeat the performance sometime."

Her eyes twinkled. "Is it good for her?"

Draco smiled. "Something like that."

Awkward silence threatened, but Hermione took a handful of the glittering green powder before it could bloom.

"I'll see you soon, Draco. Remember – not a word to your parents."

"Yes, yes. See you soon, Granger."

She tossed the handful into the grate and disappeared in a whirl of green flames. He stared at the empty fireplace for a long moment, profoundly surprised: he was sorry to see her go.

He navigated the hallways of his childhood home in a leisurely manner, in no rush to join his parents in their study. The portraits of long-deceased family members called out to him, and he stopped to chat with each for a few minutes. He even gave time to the supposed family seer, who shouted, "A ferret without a head is a ferret with a heart!" at his back as he walked away.

He paused at the door to the study and closed his eyes, taking just another moment to himself before submitting himself to their questions.

"What do you mean?" Lucius' voice was tense and wary. Draco's eyes snapped open and his brow furrowed. He was home; what could his father have to worry about now?

"Lucius," came Narcissa's condescending retort, "you can't possibly be that blind. Certainly you must remember what it was like. How I looked at you? How you looked at me?"

"Still  _look_ ," Lucius corrected grumpily.

Narcissa chuckled, and Draco's cheeks pinked. Listening at doors was quickly becoming a bad habit. He was about to announce himself when Lucius continued.

"You truly think Draco is already gone?"

"I know my son." Draco heard the smile in his mother's voice. "If he's not already, he will be soon."

"And you'll do nothing to hinder that process?"

"On the contrary. If she makes him happy, I won't dissuade him." A pregnant pause; Draco felt like he couldn't breathe. "I trust you won't interfere," she finished pointedly.

"Those days are behind me," Lucius said softly. Draco exhaled. "There are more important things to consider now, like our legacy. Politically speaking, nothing could be better than a successful union."

Narcissa tutted. "Hopefully, it will be  _very_  successful. I'd love to see my grandchildren Sorted."

Draco knocked on the door before Lucius could reply. Their conversation had turned from encouraging to terrifying in the span of a sentence, and Draco wasn't at all interested in listening to his parents speculate about his and – Merlin –  _Hermione's_ hypothetical children.

"Come in, Draco," called Narcissa. He opened the door to his parents sitting together on a loveseat. He took a seat opposite them.

"Nightcap?" Lucius offered, levitating a glass of scotch to him.

Draco nodded and grabbed the drink out of the air. "Thanks. Where'd you get the wand?"

Lucius grinned and stowed the unfamiliar wand up his sleeve. "I have friends, still."

Draco exhaled a laugh and took a sip. The alcohol's warmth seeped straight to his bones.

"What happened to you?" Narcissa asked. "You look dreadful. Pip!" A leathery house-elf appeared next to her, bowing low. "Master Draco has been injured. Attend to him, please."

"Yes, Mistress." An instant later, the elf was back with first aid supplies. Draco held out his bleeding arm for the elf to heal, but otherwise ignored him.

"What's been happening to  _you_?" Draco rebutted. "And why didn't you let me know sooner?"

"We didn't think it necessary."

"Until the elf died."

Narcissa nodded sadly. "Suppy was just trying to warn us. She didn't cast a single spell. There was no reason for her death."

"Only  _then_  did the bloody Ministry start to care," Lucius said bitterly. "Ms. Granger –"

"How was living with Ms. Granger?" Narcissa asked innocently. "She looked charming, beneath the blood and dirt."

"It's been fine until tonight," he hedged, intentionally vague.

Lucius caught Draco's eagerness to change the subject and obliged. "You were attacked?"

Draco thought for a moment of the promise he'd made to Hermione and immediately dismissed it. His parents would find out what had happened eventually, and they certainly weren't going to tell Hermione or her supervisor that they had learned it from Draco instead of an official source. The Malfoys were no strangers to political games; Draco trusted both of his parents to act sufficiently shocked when Hermione presented them with the official version of the story.

"We were," he confirmed.

For the next ten minutes, told his parents everything, from Hermione's Obliviation of his neighbor to Laurier's plan for Draco's eyeballs.

By the end of his tale, Narcissa clutched her chest and Lucius perched on the edge of the loveseat.

"It seems," Narcissa started tentatively, turning toward Lucius, "that we owe Ms. Granger a good deal more than I had originally thought."

"So it seems," Lucius agreed, taking a large swig of scotch.

"Owl her tomorrow, Draco. I'd like to thank her in person. Perhaps you could give her a tour of the gardens."

"The library," Lucius suggested. Both Draco and Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him. Lucius scowled. "Girl likes to read. You always went on about what a know-it-all she was at school."

"Dinner, then, after the library," Narcissa said. "No doubt she'll want to spend some time in there."

"I doubt she'll want to spend time here at all, Mother," said Draco before she could continue. "She'll be preoccupied with the case, and there's no need to bother with me now that I'm back here and under official Ministry guard."

"Nonsense." Narcissa waved away his protests. "She said she'd come for tea, at least, and I'm sure there will be reason for her to visit again. Perhaps to patrol the property or check the wards."

"There are other agents –"

"None that we trust as much as Ms. Granger. Right, Lucius?" His father nodded obediently. "It's settled. It must be her. Besides, we've talked to the Ministry guards patrolling now. Oafs, all. She's the only one who could even begin to understand the complexity of our wards. Owl her in the morning, Draco, and invite her to tea Saturday afternoon."

Draco knew what she was doing. Though it rankled to have his love life interfered with, especially by his mother, he nodded. Merlin knew he'd been doing a piss-poor job of wooing Hermione so far. Maybe her influence was just what he needed for Hermione to see him in a different light.

"Good," Narcissa smiled. Her blue eyes sparkled, and Draco wondered – not for the first time – if his mother could read minds. "Go take a bath and get some rest. Your old room is prepared. Unless you'd like to move?"

"No, my old room is fine."

"Have a good night, then, darling." She rose from the couch gracefully and gave him a kiss on either cheek.

Lucius rose, too, and laid a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Tomorrow we'll get down to business," he promised. "I have much to teach you."

"Yes, Father."

"Sleep well, son."

"You, too."

Draco felt their eyes on him until he closed the door to their study. He leaned on it for a moment and shut his eyes.

Pip would undoubtedly wake him at the break of dawn, per his father's orders. Gone were the days of breakfasting in nothing more than a pair of shorts; Narcissa would expect him to be showered and shaved when he met them at the table. He didn't relish a long day in his father's study, bored by the myriad details of the family business. Neither did he look forward to Narcissa's social machinations, whether regarding Hermione or the society he now had a duty to fit into.

But those were the costs of coming home. He'd accepted those responsibilities the minute he made the decision to return.

Still, it would be difficult to sleep without the sound of the waves upon the shore.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

**June 15**

Draco braced himself against the wall of his shower, closed his eyes, and allowed the hot water to sluice over his body. He had been enjoying the water for nearly an hour. It didn't take him that long to clean himself; it rarely took longer than ten minutes. But the water heater at his cottage had not been able to supply more than fifteen minutes of continuous hot water, meaning that even his longest showers were abysmally short and unsatisfyingly direct.

He had taken these long, hot showers for granted before leaving, but not any longer. Muscles he didn't even know he had relaxed, and, despite the deep, satisfying rest which came from his familiar bed, Draco felt sleepy and boneless.

He suppressed the urge to simply sit down and soak, instead turning off the tap and grabbing his towel off the heated rack. He patted himself down, tied the towel around his waist, and continued his morning routine.

When he strolled into the sunroom for breakfast, Narcissa tutted. Apparently, his leisurely morning habits had made him later than his mother deemed correct. A reprimand, even a silent one, was not Draco's favorite way to begin the day, but he endured her stare silently, thanks to the first and most important rule of etiquette: grin and bear it. Draco wasn't feeling tactful enough to manage a grin, so he kept his eyes down and busied himself with his pumpkin juice and toast while his parents resumed their idle conversation.

Once breakfast was cleared, Lucius made good on his promise to teach Draco the family business. They walked to the study together. Draco took a seat on the other side of his father's desk and tried to look interested as he explained the long and dry history of Malfoy Holdings.

The lecture lasted a few hours, and Draco was feeling antsy and irritable until Lucius brought out the files he had compiled regarding the council members. Business was all well and good, and Draco understood the basics of it, but people? Manipulation?  _Those_  were topics at which he could excel.

He flipped through pages and pages of information regarding the ten wizards sitting on the Malfoy Holdings council, most of which he was sure the men would rather keep quiet. Likes, dislikes, family history, work schedule, and personality quirks were all well documented and backed up with irrefutable evidence. No detail was too small. For instance, Walther Priggins – a jolly fellow and one of the few councilmen Draco had actually enjoyed encountering as a child – had a collection of Asian pornography comparable in size to the collection of art housed at The Louvre. Bernard Palmly, who looked as old as Hogwarts itself, had a bevy of thirty-something mistresses at his fingertips, unbeknownst to his wife of eighty years.

It was all very damaging, very titillating information. Lucius had smirked at Draco's enthusiasm over it, which he had apparently not hidden very well, and mumbled something that sounded like, "It's a start."

He showed Draco how to locate not only the personnel files, but  _all_  of Malfoy Holdings' reports. He taught him the spells that would decode the heavily encrypted information concerning the company, as well as how to access the many secret compartments of Lucius' large mahogany desk.

Eventually, Pip summoned them for lunch, and Draco traded Lucius' teaching for his mother's.

"Since you're home now, Draco, I should reintroduce you into society. I haven't been able to host anything here due to –" her eyes flicked quickly to Lucius "–  _governmental restrictions_ , but our family is still quite well respected in the old circles. You're certainly the right age to begin settling down."

Draco bit back a scoff. According to pure-blood standards, seventeen was the "right age" to marry and begin a family, regardless of emotional maturity. Draco was four years past that and felt nowhere near ready to provide for a wife, let alone children. He was just beginning to wrap his head around getting into a  _casual_ relationship. Marriage was, quite frankly, not even a possibility. He let her continue anyway, as he knew from experience that arguing would do no good.

"The Greengrass daughters are both of age now, though Daphne has been married already. Some foreign wizard, though he seems well-connected. Last I heard, Astoria was seeing Blaise. You remember Blaise, darling?"

Draco nodded and tried not to look annoyed. Of  _course_  he remembered. It wasn't liked he'd been Obliviated upon his entry into Canada.

"He's a smart match for her, but with his mother's reputation what it is… Well, let's just say that poisoned lips may run in the family."

"How's Pansy?" he asked suddenly.

Narcissa leveled a look at him. "Going with Theodore Nott. If her mother is to be believed, we shall be receiving an invitation soon."

She paused to let the information sink in. It didn't take long. He and Pansy had been an off-and-on couple at Hogwarts, but by seventh year, they both knew that it would never work out for them in the end. For her to go with Nott was a surprise. She had always teased him at Hogwarts.

"What's Nott doing?" he asked.

"He's doing very well for himself at St Mungo's."

Draco nodded. That explained it. Healers made a great deal of money and held strange hours. His Galleons could keep Pansy in relative comfort, and she could comfort  _herself_  with dalliances when Nott was working. He could only grin; Nott would have his own string of affairs. Despite his bookishness, he had gone through his share of Hogwarts' females.

"They suit each other," he said finally, and Narcissa smiled. She almost looked relieved.

"If no local women interest you, I have acquaintances abroad with eligible daughters. None that I know by name, but all it would take is an owl. If I write tomorrow, I could have all of July booked with engagements for you."

Her blue eyes were bright and sparkling. Based on her and Lucius' conversation last night, Draco was moderately sure that she would do nothing of the sort, but he knew better than to call her bluff. He opted for a version of the truth instead.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he said smoothly. "With all that's been going on, I hardly think the  _Ministry_  will be supportive of my search for a mate, especially if it takes place outside of the Manor."

"And if it takes place  _inside_  of the Manor?" she asked sharply.

Draco's lips curled into a small grin. "I doubt they would be opposed to that."

Narcissa's smile was at once tender and victorious; Lucius cleared his throat in discomfort.

"We should return to the study, Draco," he said, pushing back his chair.

"Of course," said Narcissa. "I've had my turn for business, and now you should finish yours. I'll see you for supper."

The rest of the afternoon was devoted to books. Lucius led him through Malfoy Holdings' finances from Draco's birth to the present time, each gain and loss painstakingly categorized and accounted. He learned the fundamentals of what distinguished a good Paramount Administrator from a bad one, what defined a good investment, how to calculate risk versus reward, and how to temper the reasoning of one's head with the pull of one's instincts.

It was too much information to comprehend all at once, and, as the hours passed, Draco struggled to stay attentive. The responsibility of being his father's successor was becoming more and more terrifying, no longer boring but actively frightening.

Perhaps Lucius sensed this. Around four p.m., he said, "That's enough for today. There will be time later to delve into greater detail."

Draco let out a skeptical laugh. Lucius smiled. "You're bright, Draco. Capable. If I had to hand the company over to you tomorrow, I trust that you would see it succeed."

Compliments of any sort from Lucius were rare, and this one – given so soon after Draco's return – was incredibly humbling. He wanted to assure his father that he would do his best to raise the family name into luster again, that he wouldn't disappoint, that he would create a lasting legacy no matter the costs, but the only words he could manage were, "Thank you, Father." One look into Lucius' eyes told him that they were enough.

"Your mother and I have a gift for you," Lucius said suddenly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I thought you sent my gifts over with Granger."

"Even she would have had trouble passing this one through customs."

They made their way to the patio, where Narcissa was reading. She smiled and marked her place, set her book down, and came to stand beside Lucius.

"Ready, Narcissa?"

She withdrew her wand and pointed it at a covered something in the middle of the space. With a quick twirl, the cover gusted away.

Draco gaped.

Hovering in front of him was the most glorious broomstick he had ever seen, with a dark Sedona shaft and a red oak base. Not a single twig was misshapen. The footholds were silver and, from the look of it, adjustable.

"It's the Firebolt Z3," Lucius said proudly. "Where your Nimbus was built entirely for speed, this broom was built with comfort in mind."

Draco walked up to the broom, hardly daring to run his fingers over the spotless surface. "From naught to sixty miles per hour in a little over three seconds," Lucius narrated, "and back to naught in less. The most powerful braking, cushioning, and shielding charms known to wizardkind, as well as built-in navigational features. Everything is operated by voice command, and it will respond only to you. Only two thousand were manufactured."

"Father…" Draco turned to him, utterly gobsmacked. "How did you ever –"

"There are still some in this world who consider us friends," he replied lightly. Behind him, Narcissa smiled.

"You like it, darling?"

"Yes, it's… It's  _perfect_. Thank you."

He turned back to the broom, and his parents shared a contented look.

"Supper's at seven," Narcissa said, twining her arm through Lucius'. They walked back into the Manor together, leaving Draco alone with his new broom.

He stared at it for a while longer. Only once he was satisfied that he had memorized the broom's contours from every angle did he touch it. A thrum of power and recognition raced through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. When he mounted and kicked off, he broke out in gooseflesh. He let out a whoop of delight as he accelerated, testing his father's claim of zero to sixty and then some.

Hours elapsed, though they felt like mere minutes to Draco. He had missed flying so much that it had felt like a physical ache, and to be in the air once more was nothing short of bliss. When Pip called him for supper, he dismounted reluctantly, bolted down the meal, and was back outside, where he soared until the sun set.

**June 16**

The day was beautiful and calm.

Draco was half-naked and panicked.

He stared at his open wardrobe at a total loss. Trousers in colors ranging from light grey and black to brown and – to his horror – light blue, hung at one end, while his best dress robes hung at the other. In between were a variety of both polo and oxford shirts in every conceivable color, including a few pastel pinks and purples. Those were undoubtedly meant to be worn with the blue trousers, though Draco couldn't fathom why, unless looking like a sugared almond had become  _en vogue_ while he was away.

Well, no matter what the current fashion was, Narcissa had made sure to fill his closet with every conceivable combination. Wearing outdated clothes was the least of his problems, however. Wearing clothes at all, on the other hand…

"Pip!" The house-elf appeared at once, bowing low. "Fetch my mother, please. Tell her I need her assistance." The elf disappeared with another bow. Draco donned his bathrobe and paced for five minutes until Narcissa arrived.

"What's the problem, darling?" she said lightly. "Can't find the right socks?"

It was a joke, and it would have been a funny one had it not been so close to the truth. Draco scowled and gestured angrily at his wardrobe. Narcissa, to her credit, did her best to swallow her laughter.

"I wouldn't wear  _half_  of these things. What are they doing in my wardrobe?"

"It's important for a young man to have options," she said delicately. She brushed past him and considered the collection for a moment. "I'm sure clothes were scarce when you lived abroad. T-shirts every day, I assume?"

"If that," Draco muttered.

Narcissa pretended not to hear him. "I suppose you've got comfortable with a more relaxed styling, but life is different here, darling. Let's start with the slacks."

Draco watched sullenly as she flitted about his wardrobe. In a matter of minutes, she selected a pair of light grey trousers, a simple black belt, and a light blue, collared shirt.

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?" she asked, handing the selection to him and ushering him away to change. He did and came out of the dressing room with his arms in a half-shrug.

"So?"

Narcissa studied him carefully. "Unbutton your top button. This is an afternoon tea, not a boardroom meeting." He did as directed and Narcissa nodded once. "Much better. Now you look your age. I tried to convince your father to do the same, but the man is positively intractable."

"One of his many charms."

"Indeed. I was able to convince him that the tie and cufflinks were unnecessary. Took me nearly all morning." She smoothed his hair and sighed. "I remember when I had to fight to get you to look presentable."

"A lot has changed since then."

"For more people than just our family, it seems. I'd never have believed that Hermione Granger, of all people, would be joining us for tea one day."

Their eyes met. Draco could tell she wanted more information. He wasn't sure he was ready to divulge it.

"It's not a social visit, Mother. She's going to update us on the case."

Narcissa waved away his pretext. "A Floo call would suffice to update us on the case. I believe Ms. Granger has an ulterior objective. Do you not?"

She fixed him with one of her stares, and Draco squirmed. Black family tenacity. There was no getting out of this conversation.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. "I don't know. I've tried, but she's… stubborn. I don't think she wants…" He searched for words and only found one: "Me."

Narcissa cupped his cheek. "Change comes more slowly to some than to others, as does the acceptance of that change. Ms. Granger has always been sharp. She will see the man I do soon enough, if she doesn't already."

"If not?"

His mother scoffed. "If she is the woman you want, you will make it clear to her. If you can't, I will."

Draco smiled.

"Don't worry, darling," she continued. "It will all end as it should. Now come, she will arrive shortly. You should be the one who meets her at the Relay."

He took her arm and walked with her until they reached the main hall. Narcissa headed toward the sunroom while Draco took the path to the Relay. He was a few minutes early, but the extra time gave him the opportunity to roll up his sleeves and arrange his hair in the just-right combination of "devil-may-care" and "coiffed." He paced a few more minutes, then the grate of a large, brick fireplace flared green.

Hermione stepped out of the Floo a bit unsteadily, but Draco was there at once, offering her his arm for support. She took it with a smile, which Draco returned, though he feared it might have looked a tad goofy.

"Hello, Draco."

"Granger."

He led her away from the fireplace and used his wand to dust her off.

"You look…"

"Stunning" was the first word that came to mind. She wore a light pink sundress, similar to the one she had worn to their failed dinner attempt at The Docks, and a short-sleeved cardigan. Her hair was down and, even though she was in a room with no windows, it seemed like she radiated sunshine. Despite all that, the only adjective he could manage was, "Nice."

She smiled anyway. "Thank you. You look nice, too. Quite a change from what you're used to, I'm sure."

He nodded. "It is."

"And being with your parents again? Is it going well?"

He kept her arm as he led her through the Manor, in no great hurry to get to the sunroom.

"As well as it can go, I suppose. It's strange – they're always around. Father's been teaching me about running the family business."

"Is he going to step down soon?"

"No, no," Draco said quickly. "Not voluntarily. I think his illness caused a shift in his perspective. It's intimidating, quite honestly, the responsibility of maintaining the family legacy."

"And forging one for yourself."

Draco glanced at her. "Yes, that too. But I don't have to worry about it any time soon."

By then, they had reached the sunroom. Narcissa rose from her seat gracefully. Lucius rose, too, though he looked much stiffer.

"So good to see you again, Ms. Granger," Narcissa smiled, clasping Hermione's offered hand. "I'm glad to see you've been healed."

"Nothing a quick trip to Mungo's couldn't fix, fortunately."

"Please, sit."

Draco helped her to a seat between him and Narcissa and across from Lucius. Shortly after he sat down, the tea service materialized through the table, as did a few plates of savories. Narcissa both poured and maintained light conversation about the weather and books. His mother's true intentions coincided with the appearance of the scones.

"Though it seems a shame to mar this lovely day with such dreadful talk, Lucius and I have been quite curious about what happened Thursday evening."

Hermione set down her saucer, glanced quickly at Draco – he interpreted it as a warning – and launched into her tale.

It was decidedly pared down from what had actually happened. In her version, there was no near-fatal car crash, no intense magical battle, and no Obliviation of innocent Muggle neighbors. Nor did she share any of the information she'd learned about their attacker, Guy Laurier, or his plan to take one of Draco's eyes.

In fact, her story was so ridiculously altered that Draco felt himself becoming upset. He was just about to interrupt when a slight pressure was applied to his toes. It was Lucius. Though his attention seemed entirely focused on Hermione, his grey eyes were turned ever so slightly to Draco. He read their warning, then glanced at his mother. Her eyes never once wavered from Hermione's face, but small downturn at the corner of her mouth told Draco everything he needed to know. They would discuss it later, as a family, but it was vital for him to keep his mouth shut for now.

It was difficult, but he managed. Narcissa and Lucius, to their credit, looked appropriately horrified by what had happened and took a few minutes to thank various deities that neither of them had been seriously harmed.

"Has your investigation turned up any new leads?" Narcissa asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. But the MLE Office hasn't finished processing Laurier. There's still a chance they could find something useful."

Narcissa nodded, but Draco raised an eyebrow. Something wasn't right.

" _They_?"

Hermione either hadn't heard him or had chosen to ignore him, for she barreled on. "However, because of what happened to us, the MLE Office has decided that a physical guard is not enough. They would like to withdraw the guard and augment Malfoy Manor's wards instead."

She looked nervous after she said it, and for good reason. Narcissa froze, her utensils hovering over her plate. Lucius nearly choked on a mouthful of water. When he lowered his napkin from his mouth to his lap, Draco saw his fingers curl around the fabric in what could only be a mime of what he'd like to do to the neck of whatever Ministry bozo had suggested augmenting the wards.

"The Manor's wards are ancient," Lucius said tensely, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "They are to be applied and maintained only by those of Malfoy blood."

"But –"

"It's true, Ms. Granger," Narcissa chimed in. "I am not even permitted at the casting as I am only a Malfoy by marriage."

"I understand; however –"

Lucius continued. "The Ministry is not permitted to augment private wards whenever they see fit. You know the law, I'm sure."

"Of course I do," Hermione half-snapped, half-sighed. Her own composure was beginning to crack. Draco was surprised she'd lasted this long. His parents could be exasperating when they worked together.

"Then the matter is closed."

A sharp jolt of pain landed on Draco's right knee, making him flinch. Hermione looked at him in confusion, he glared at Narcissa, and Narcissa inclined her head ever so slightly toward Hermione. He bit back an angry pout: he had not missed his mother's  _understated_  methods of communication.

"What wards would the Ministry want to apply?" he asked, ignoring Lucius' piercing glare.

"An identifier and an alarm around the Manor's perimeter only. They would be connected to the Ministry's alarm system, allowing them a faster response time in the event of another attack. Obviously, these wards are temporary. They would be removed as soon as the threat against your family has been neutralized."

"Are these wards my father and I could cast?"

She bobbed her head. "Yes and no. The charms are simple enough, but only a Ministry-approved caster could tie them into the MLE office's alarm system." She paused, thinking, then continued. "I suppose you could connect the charms to a single-use relay, which the office's caster could then connect to the Ministry's system."

Draco caught on at once. "Like my gnome."

His parents sent him weird looks, but Hermione's secret smile was worth it. "Exactly like your gnome."

A smile played on Narcissa's lips as she spoke to Hermione but locked eyes with Draco. "This workaround seems complicated. Are you sure your wards are worth the effort?"

At Hermione's firm and unhesitating, "Yes," Narcissa's chin lifted triumphantly, as if to say  _I told you so_.

Narcissa turned to Lucius. "How about it, darling? Ms. Granger has been flexible. Surely you'd be willing to work with her?"

Lucius looked as if he'd rather risk it, but Draco suspected that he'd be on the receiving end of a nasty shock to the knee if he replied with anything but, "Yes, dear."

Narcissa turned back to Hermione with a tight smile. "Now that's settled, why don't you and Draco take a tour of the gardens? You may use my broom, if you'd like."

"Oh, I couldn't –"

"Of course you could. The gardens are simply beautiful in bloom. Or perhaps you would like to see the Malfoy library?" A look of longing darkened Hermione's brown eyes. "We have one of the largest private collections of magical texts in England, you know."

"I wish I could," she said sincerely, "but I… I have to get back to the office."

Again, the feeling of something  _off_.

"On a Saturday?" Draco asked incredulously.

Hermione ignored his disquiet even as she forced her face into a neutral expression. The act did not fool his parents, and it certainly did not fool him. He exchanged quick glances with Lucius and Narcissa as he listened to her lie without interruption, though it was very tempting to call her on it.

"I just have a few things to catch up on. It won't take long."

Narcissa nodded, and her voice was immeasurably cooler when she spoke. "Next time, then. Thank you again, Ms. Granger, for what you've done for our family, as well as for joining us today. I hope we'll be able to do it again soon."

Hermione's expression became genuine once more as she and Draco stood. "I'd like that very much. Thank you for inviting me."

They exchanged a final farewell as Draco took her arm and escorted her back to the Relay.

Once they were out of hearing range, Draco dropped her arm and turned on her. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"Don't be dense. You lied about going into the office. And since when do you refer to the MLE Office as if you weren't a part of it?"

"You're reading too much into things."

"No, I'm not. Tell me the truth." He did not give her the chance, as the answer suddenly dawned on him. "How much trouble are you in?"

She pursed her lips in annoyance. "It's none of your concern."

"Yes, it is," he said earnestly. He softened his tone and pulled her closer, moving his hands from her wrists to her forearms, and then her shoulders. "Tell me."

When she answered, her voice was small. It was as if she had shrunk in his arms, the strong, beautiful woman he knew disappearing into one who was unsure and frightened. Into one who had failed.

"I've been suspended without pay."

" _What_?"

"I'm under investigation. Bates took me off the case."

"Fuck. What are they investigating?"

"What do you think?"

It was a stupid question. Estelle. Of course.

" _Fuck_."

She laughed weakly. "Yes, that just about sums it up."

"When the hell did you plan on telling me?"

"Is that relevant right now?"

"Or did you figure that my parents and I would cotton on when another agent showed up to assist with the wards?"

"Draco, that's not the point. I'm lucky he even let me come today."

His heart fell. "This was a Ministry-sanctioned visit?" Hermione could not meet his eyes, and Draco let go of her shoulders. His mother had been wrong. Any other time, he might have reveled in it.

"What about Potter?" The question was robotic, rote. His interest in her predicament had suddenly vanished. "Can't he –"

"Harry tried. He talked to Bates, but Bates wouldn't budge. He shouldn't. I broke the law."

"You did what you had to do."

"Did I?" She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. "You didn't seem so sure of it at the time."

His chest constricted at the sight of her tears. Damn her.

"What happens next?"

"I'll tell Bates your conditions regarding the wards. I suspect he'll send an owl when a caster is –"

"Not with the bloody wards, Granger," he said with a growl. "With  _you_. What happens next with  _you_?"

"Oh." Her face fell. "I'm going to meet with my advocate now to discuss my… options. After that, I suppose I'll… I don't know. Catch up on housework. Maybe start knitting again."

"Sounds thrilling."

She smiled and stared at the floor. "Maybe I'll make the world's longest scarf."

He crooked a finger beneath her chin and raised her eyes to his. "You're going to be fine," he said firmly. "Let me know what I can do to help you."

"Thank you, Draco."

And because her eyes were shining, and her body so close, and her lips so pink, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. He meant it to be chaste and comforting, but kissing her was like being struck by lightning, and he lost himself in the electric  _rightness_  coursing through his bones, brain, and heart. But her lips were stiff, and her hand was splayed against his chest. She pushed him away once again, and he swore, resting his forehead against hers.

"You can't keep doing this to me, Granger," he said breathlessly. "It's not right."

"I know it's not, and I'm sorry I ever started it. But this… This can't happen for us."

"Why not?"

She stepped away from him and took a breath to steady herself; he had to stop himself from bridging the gap between them.

"You know why."

And she was right: he did know. Their time together in Canada had been like something out of a dream, bathed in a sort golden haze. All they had was each other; all they had to do was remain hidden and alive. Those things were easy in such a sleepy, private setting, and they filled the time between with laughter, and meals, and fights, and secrets, and even a kiss.

Coming back, coming  _home_ , after that was like being plunged into icy water after thirty minutes in a sauna. Their real lives and all the rules and responsibilities associated with them snapped back into place, and the golden haze gave way to stark lines between what was acceptable and what was not. A relationship between a scorned MLE officer and the son of the family she was assigned (or volunteered, or whatever) to protect – no matter how unquestionably right it felt – could never be anything but wrong.

She saw the comprehension in his eyes and smiled sadly. She tipped the Floo Powder urn and tossed a handful of it into the fire.

"See you, Granger."

She paused before stepping into the fire and gave him a considering look. "I have no doubt in the MLE Office's ability to protect you and your family," she said. "However, if there's an emergency, you can Floo me at home." She gave him her address. "It must be a  _real_  emergency, Draco. I'm serious."

"Understood."

"Good. I'll see you… When I see you."

Then she was gone, spinning away in a whirl of green fire, leaving Draco angry, frustrated, hopeful, aroused, and a mix of other things that he couldn't possibly process and so did not bother to try. One thing was clear, however: though he could not bring himself to regret the decision to come home, he regretted very much losing whatever had been blossoming between them. He made his way back to the sunroom feeling dejected and was surprised to see Narcissa sitting alone.

"Where's Father?"

"Indulging his paranoia. He went to the library to study the wards. He's afraid the Ministry caster might try to identify the Manor's protections. I believe he wants to make the wards Undetectable."

"It's a good idea."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Not you, too."

"Well, we have good reason to be paranoid. Hermione's been removed from the case."

The glass Narcissa held shattered, spilling ice and lemonade across the table. A house-elf appeared immediately to mop up the mess.

" _What_? Why on earth would they remove her?"

"She performed a Memory Charm on a Muggle without authorization."

"To protect you."

"To protect us both. It was either Obliviate the Muggle or stand by and allow the Statute of Secrecy to be broken."

"You believe she acted correctly?"

Draco sighed as he sat down. "I do."

"Are you willing to swear it before the Wizengamot?"

He met Narcissa's challenging look with one of his own. " _Yes_. I wouldn't betray her like that."

Narcissa nodded once and dismissed the elf, which was trying to inspect her hand for lacerations, with a wave. "I certainly hope not. She is clearly attracted to you."

Draco frowned as Narcissa smiled shrewdly. "It doesn't matter," he said, leaning back in his hair. "Nothing can happen."

"Oh? Why is that?"

Draco clenched his jaw.

"Perhaps nothing can happen right now, but this unpleasantness won't last forever. Once it ends, you will be able to pick up where you left off. All you must do is make sure that there is a firm base upon which to build."

"I'm under house arrest. Our owls are monitored. I'm not supposed to Floo her unless there's an emergency. How am I to  _build a firm base_  if I'm not permitted to contact her?"

"She gave you her Floo address?"

"Really? That's what you're focused on?"

"What is it?"

Draco hesitated, but Narcissa looked so intent that he told her. She took a moment to memorize the address, then she smiled and closed her eyes in satisfaction, looking as pleased as a Niffler that had struck gold.

"Her personal Floo," she said quietly. "You silly boy. Don't you realize what this means?"

"Um…"

"She shouldn't have given that to you. She's been removed from the case."

"And suspended without pay," he added.

Narcissa scowled deeply. "Bureaucratic fools. If her office finds out she's given you her home address, she could lose everything. She is risking her  _career_  for you, Draco. A career she has worked very hard to build."

"She's risking it for  _us_ ," he corrected. "For our family."

"Ms. Granger did not give me her address," Narcissa snapped. "She gave it to  _you_. She trusted  _you_. She cares about  _you_."

Draco snapped back, fed up with her insistence. "So I just need to sit on my laurels and wait for whoever wants to kill us to decide we're not worth it, and then Granger and I can romp merrily into the sunset! Nothing to worry about, right?"

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "How like your father you are. Stubborn, proud, stupid, and an expert at self-sabotage. You cannot think for a moment that it is going to be easy from now on. No, Draco, you have  _everything_  to worry about. Only you could ruin this for yourself, and, more likely than not, you will."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mother," he snarked bitterly. "It's really heartening to know I have your support."

She ignored him and rose from the table. "If my evaluation of Ms. Granger's character is correct, she's not one to give up when things become difficult."

"She isn't."

"Good. Maybe there is hope for you yet."

With that, Narcissa swept from the room, leaving Draco to stew over what she'd said and wonder, not  _if_  he would cock things up, but rather how and when.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

**June 20**

Squid paces the floor of Ape's small flat. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn. It's unsatisfying, this pacing. He's never understood why people do it. A waste of motion, of time, of energy better devoted to more practical matters.

But he continues because, for the first time in years, he is nervous. He is unsure of what else to do. The last time he felt like this, he earned himself a nickname. He does not regret it, but the moment nevertheless cost him a considerable amount of pride. He does not wish to repeat the experience, especially when he has so much more than pride to lose.

Squid glances at his partner and scowls. It's Ape's fault. This anxiety would not even exist if it weren't for him. And yet he sits on his ruined, threadbare sofa with his hands in his lap, fingers interlaced, looking unconcerned, as if he were waiting for the N.E.W.T.s he knew he failed instead of an owl from the assassin- _cum_ -kidnapper they'd sent.

The irony is not lost on him. Squid is usually so cool and contained, used to planning and waiting, and waiting, and waiting for as long as it takes for the desired result to come to fruition. Ape is the impatient one, jumping without waiting to hear how high. Squid does not know why their roles are suddenly reversed, and neither does he care to explore the reasons. All Squid knows is that he does not like it.

"Why has he not owled?"

Squid has asked the question thrice now. Though he knows it is deserved, Ape's heavy sigh only piques his irritation further.

"He should have owled."

"Could've had a problem," Ape says, his tone wretchedly level, marked with only the slightest impatience.

"There are only so many ways an abduction can go wrong," Squid says with a hiss. He shoots Ape a glare; Ape simply raises his eyebrows and looks away.

"Nothing we can do but wait."

That is enough. Squid feels his anger swell, warming him, exciting him. His hands curl into fists, and he feels dangerous, as though he may kill Ape if he stays with him any longer.

He grabs a light cloak and slams the door. Separating himself from Ape helps, and he takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe. He needs to settle himself before he steps out of this relative haven and into the fray.

He melts into the traffic of Diagon Alley smoothly, matching the pace of those around him, lingering near the edges, and watching – always watching – though he is not sure for what.

The sign for The Bloodied Maiden – a dark, notched, wooden placard so worn that the gruesome illustration is barely distinguishable – swings in the gentle evening breeze, and an idea hangs with it. He turns and heads towards the Owl Post Office. He flips a Knut into the till, and the cage of a Scops owl opens. He scribbles his note quickly but carefully, each word measured and intentional. He reads it over once and, satisfied, attaches it to the leg of the Scops.

He does not wait to watch the bird take flight. It is near closing, and the post office is emptying quickly. Though he is sure of his invisibility – the eyes of the other patrons pass over him as if he were air – he will not take the chance of being seen. He melts into the thinning crowd once again and returns to The Bloodied Maiden.

The barkeep of The Maiden notices him, as he must notice all predators. They share a glance. The barkeep nods and Squid settles himself into a dark corner where he can watch the door.

Squid waits.

Waits.

Sending the owl has given him a sense of serenity, but it is transient and begins to fade as the sun slips past the horizon. It is half past seven when he begins to wonder if Ape is right. It is half past eight when he decides that he would rather face Ape's silence than the barkeep's wondering glances. He rises and is not two steps away from his seat when The Maiden's door opens.

iBaker/i.

He looks around the bar once, twice, only spotting Squid when he decides to be seen, when his desire for information overcomes his desire to punish Baker for making him feel like a fool. He plasters on his most human smile and reaches out to shake Baker's hand. Baker takes it without hesitation, clapping Squid on the back as he sits.

"Hell of a day," says Baker, waving the barkeep down. He orders a beer and a plate of fish and chips. "Anything for you, Squid?"

Squid shakes his head. He does not eat in public. Even if he did, he is sure he could not manage it tonight. He is too on edge, too focused. His appetite is unimportant; only his goal matters.

Baker shrugs and takes a grateful sip of the drink the barkeep delivers.

"Hell of a day," Baker repeats. "Got your owl, of course, but didn't have the time to reply. I'm glad you waited, though. Merlin, I needed this."

"Break a case?"

"Something like that," he says around another sip of beer.

He looks around to make sure no one is listening in.

"Granger's off the case," he confides with unrestrained glee.

Squid is caught off guard. It shows on his face, because Baker drops his voice an octave and clarifies.

"The Malfoy case, you know? The one I was telling you about last time?"

"Yes, yes," Squid says, grateful to have been provided with a way out. "I remember it now. What happened?"

The barkeep drops off Baker's plate of food in what must be record time for the kitchen. Baker begins to stuff his face, and though Squid finds discussion while masticating one of the fouler habits of humankind, he suffers through it. Anything to keep Baker talking.

"Assassin found them in Canada. Granger took him down before he could do any harm."

The news that their hired wand had failed does not surprise him. After days with no word, it could not have been any other way.

"Pity." He mutters more to himself than to Baker, but Baker hears it and huffs a laugh.

"No kidding! But it wasn't a total loss. The bint Obliviated a Muggle. A Muggle! Dowdy old thing, too. Harmless. Could've passed it off as dementia, more'n likely. Granger reported it, and Bates took her right off. Guess who's been given lead?"

He sits back and looks self-satisfied, so Squid makes the only guess he can.

"Congratulations. One step closer to becoming fully certified."

" _The_ step," Baker corrects. "All I have to do is keep that tosser Malfoy alive, and I'll have earned my badge."

"Should be easy enough, with him thousands of miles away."

"No!" Baker says excitedly. Flecks of breading spewed from his glistening lips. "He's back."

Squid's entire body tenses. His hearing is perfect, but he is afraid he's misunderstood. There is no way he can be that lucky. "What was that?"

"He's back." Baker wipes his mouth on the edge of his sleeve. "Malfoy is back in England. Has been for nearly a week now."

Squid senses the need to tread carefully. "At a safe house, I presume. They wouldn't stay at the Manor."

"Malfoy arrogance," Baker pronounces, raising his glass in sarcastic salute. "That's what took me so long. Had to oversee a new set of wards being placed on their mansion."

"That must not have gone over well."

Baker huffs and shakes his head. "You have no idea."

"What sorts of wards?"

"Standard stuff," Baker says with a careless wave. "Identifier with an alarm. Nothing complicated, though from the way they squawked, you would've thought I was barring them from doing magic themselves. Malfoy junior is as ill tempered as his Death-Eating, slime-ball father, and that mother of his? Two words:  _ice queen_. Nearly threw me out. Apparently, they were none too pleased about Granger being replaced. Junior, especially."

Baker's tone implies significance deeper than the obvious fact that Granger's replacement is a piss-poor agent. Squid once again offers a guess.

"They're involved?"

Baker taps his nose with a greasy forefinger. "Certainly seems that way. Though he could just be that way all the time. Who knows?"

Squid knows. He knows men and their weaknesses. He has seen the power of a pretty face and a nice set of tits. He has used them himself; some of his most productive thefts have been in the skin of a woman. Men turn into morons at the prospect of sex, which makes it easy to stun or drug them, and then rob them blind. If Malfoy is indeed infatuated with Granger, it is something he could use to his advantage. It is leverage. Power.

"She's off the case, but surely he's keeping her informed."

Baker shakes his head and swallows his mouthful of fried fish. "Not if she wants to keep her job. No contact with the Malfoys or anyone connected to the case."

Squid pauses for a moment.

"Do you think she'd risk it?"

Baker looks at him askance. "That uppity swot? Not a chance. She's nearly certified herself. Malfoy's just not worth it. Though if she did?" A wicked smile twists Baker's lips. "Oh, I'd just love to catch her at that. Take her down another peg or two."

He trails off, enjoying happy thoughts of Granger's public shaming. Squid would have joined him in the fun, but he is busy sorting through the information Baker has shared.

He gives Baker a sideways look and signals the barkeep with a wave of his finger to get him a second beer. Baker takes it without question and begins to drink. Squid is surprised: clearly, the Ministry should have a more stringent screening process for their agents. After just two drinks, Baker is singing Ministry secrets like a canary. But he is pleased, too, and decides to press his luck. He orders a drink for himself, changes the subject, and settles in for a few hours of inane conversation.

Squid needs all of his patience to get through it without strangling the man. Baker talks about his conquests with women, his bitch of a sister, and how he wishes he saw the Muggle side of his family more often. He reminisces about Hogwarts, about people Squid hardly remembers, but pretends to just to keep him going. He wonders about his future, about how quickly he can move through the Auror ranks and how best to position himself to take over the department when Bates retires.

Baker is good and drunk now, his voice heavy and slurred, and Squid is sure that this is his opening.

"You think Bates will retire soon?"

"Hope so. Old codger… Too conservative by half, he is."

"People seem to have forgotten the effectiveness of force."

"Yeah. He needs to be aggressive. That's the way… How to get information."

"Your assassin suspect, for example. Any leads on who may have hired him?"

Baker laughs. "Not a one. Whole thing was arranged through owl post, which is pretty much untraceable. We're watching his place, but no one's tried to contact him since his arrest. He's a dead end."

A weight lifts from Squid's chest. "Too bad," he lies convincingly. "What's your next step for the case?"

"Dunno," Baker says with a shrug. "Wait, I reckon. We've got the place as monitored as it can be. Can't force anyone to attack."

An idea springs forth. "How long will you have to keep up this surveillance?"

Baker furrows his brow. "If it were up to me, a week. Two, maybe. Ministry's got its hands full with more interesting cases than babysitting the Malfoys. But…" He raises his hands, disavowing all connection with the decision.

"Right," says Squid. "Bureaucrats."

Baker smiles and points his index finger at Squid. "You got it. Fucking  _bureaucrats_."

Silence descends and, despite himself, Squid grins. It has been a most productive evening. Baker checks his watch and swears.

"Gotta get home, mate. Early day tomorrow. Merlin forbid a Malfoy wipes his arse without the Ministry knowing about it."

Squid nods.

Baker throws a few Sickles onto the bar (not nearly enough to cover his bill), claps Squid on the shoulder, and weaves his way through the tables to the door. Squid finishes his drink a few minutes later and sets down enough coin to cover them both. Then he is up and out, disappearing into the shadows as he hurries to Ape's flat above the apothecary.

He is excited to share what he's learned and to begin to put into motion the culmination of their work. He will still need to be patient, but it will be easier now that he has something to look forward to.

The end of the Malfoy family.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go!!

**Chapter Fourteen**

**July 16**

Draco sat on the back portico at a table piled high with ledgers and scrolls. The fingertips of his left hand were stained with dark ink, and his right hand hovered near a perspiring glass of lemonade, which he had decided not to spike with vodka, though it was very tempting. The history of Malfoy Holdings had not become any more interesting in the seventeenth century than it had been in the sixteenth. He did not anticipate the eighteenth century being very riveting, either, but he had hope. The eighteenth century was brimming with wars and revolutions; maybe one of the few Muggle ventures the company acquired had been involved.

Doubtful, but he needed something to pull him through the hours.

A gentle breeze riffled through his scrolls and the feather of his quill. He closed his eyes and inhaled. The scent was clean and earthy, chlorophyllic and fresh, and – though it was by no means unpleasant – he longed instead for the smell of fresh water and damp sand, of decomposing vegetation and the musk of fish. He longed to visit, even for an hour, the cottage he had called home for three years, preferably with the witch who had finally found him there.

Thoughts of one inevitably followed thoughts of the other. The cottage and the girl were inextricably linked in his mind, to the point where she was part of his sense memory. Could he smell fresh water without being reminded of her coconut body lotion? Could he touch sand without remembering her lounging on her towel and untying the back of her top because she thought she was alone?

The breeze died, but his thoughts of her did not. Draco stared off into middle distance until he heard the door behind him open. Immediately, he bent his head back to the ledger.

"Your father cleared a desk off for you weeks ago," chided Narcissa, "and yet you still choose to work out here." She conjured a chair to his left and sat down, absently flipping through the books before her. "Why is that?"

He said nothing, which was enough.

"It reminds you of her, doesn't it?"

"It's peaceful," he appended. "I work better out here."

"Have you heard from her?"

"No." His voice was brittle. "I won't until the investigation is closed."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him.

"Is it not?"

The question was not a question; it was a challenge, a continuation of their quarrel from yesterday, which Draco had no desire to pursue. Clearly, what he wanted was not going to matter this afternoon.

He set down his quill and faced her.

"I asked them not to take down the wards."

"Since when do Malfoys  _ask_?"

"Since public officials became immune to bribery."

"That Baker man is not immune," she said tersely. "He is a bigot. A simple-minded, spiteful bigot."

"A  _powerful_ , simple-minded, spiteful bigot. It wouldn't surprise me if he campaigned for the ward removal himself. All that bullshite about the  _allocation of Ministry resources_?"

He huffed a cynical laugh.

"Baker knows that the threat against us isn't gone, but he's convinced the people who hold the purse strings that it is."

"We're just going to accept that?"

"What else can I do? March into the Ministry and demand another round of guards? Threaten to hex someone until the wards are reinstalled?"

"Floo Ms. Granger," Narcissa said through clenched teeth.

Draco clamped his jaw shut. "You know I can't do that. She said emergencies only."

"Our lives being endangered by a fool's incompetence isn't an emergency?"

"Not enough of one to risk getting her sacked."

"Then what is?"

He didn't answer. Premature ward removal  _seemed_  like the perfect reason to Floo Hermione, but what if it wasn't? What if Baker's timeline was reasonable? He'd be putting her at risk for nothing.

It wasn't worth it.

Narcissa huffed again and left just as abruptly as she came. Draco twirled his quill and looked out at the Malfoy grounds. When the breeze kicked up again, he could almost imagine the smell of the water.

**July 31**

Draco lay on a chaise longue in the Manor's library with his hand on his forehead, waiting for the day to end. It was Potter's birthday – one of several national holidays devoted to his existence. The populous wasn't granted the day off (as was the case on May 2, the Day of Defeat), but the  _Prophet_  thought it appropriate to devote its entire edition to him. Like there was a soul in Europe who didn't know what color socks Potter wore or which dessert was his favorite.

Still, seeing Potter's face blinking up at him when he came down for breakfast triggered memories of his past and the plethora of mistakes he'd made. It was exhausting, carrying around so much regret, and Draco gave himself a headache wondering how things could've gone if he had acted differently. There had been so many opportunities for him, so much he'd missed, and for what? Power? Pride? What a joke: his family barely had either of those things now.

Before his mind could skip further down its melancholy path, a house-elf appeared. Draco spared the creature a glance, then resumed staring at the ceiling.

"Master Draco, sir?" the elf said tentatively.

"Tell Father I'm not touching those thrice-damned ledgers today," he grumped. "We were rich. Now, we're less rich. I get it."

"Yes, Master Draco."

Still, the elf remained. Draco gave him another sideways glance, letting his eyes linger. The elf fidgeted.

"Is it Mother, then?" he prompted. "Does she want to see me?"

"No, Master Draco."

Draco sat up, put his elbows on his knees, and glared at the elf. "What is it, then?"

"You has a visitor, Master Draco. In the foyer."

That was unexpected. "And you waited this long to say so?"

The elf looked at his grimy feet, and Draco felt a bubble of annoyance burst in his chest.

"Get out of here," he snapped, and the elf disappeared.

Draco hurried through the halls. He was ninety percent sure that Narcissa had named Hermione a Trusted. He hadn't seen her in over a month – surely that was enough time to dismiss the investigation surrounding her. The MLE Office had removed the wards around the Manor, after all, so maybe they had closed the case without telling him. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing that he'd taken a little more care in dressing today. He'd have worn something other than khakis and a damn polo. At least it was green.

His footsteps stuttered as he reached the foyer. The person standing there was not Hermione. It took a moment for Draco to find his name.

" _Goyle_."

Gregory Goyle raised his dark eyes from the floor and met Draco's incredulous gaze with an impassive expression. He looked different from when they were in school. He was still massive – easily six feet tall, probably over – but his size was not merely bulk. There was some serious muscle beneath his thin shirt, and the scars and scabs on his knuckles indicated that they were in frequent use.

As Goyle walked closer, Draco decided that the difference was in the way he held himself. At Hogwarts, firmly in place as one of Draco's two cronies, Goyle tended to swagger: chest lifted, chin jutting out, arms held stiffly at his sides with his hands clenched into fists, ready to throw a punch at a moment's notice. Now, however, Goyle moved with more subtlety, like he had become aware how his size and strength affected others and sought to downplay it. His gait could hardly be called graceful, but it was smoother, faster. Though, Draco noticed, he did still clench his fists.

The detail brought a small smile to his lips and helped him move past his initial, wary surprise. He looked back to Goyle's face and extended his hand to shake.

Draco never saw the fist flying toward his gut, but he sure as hell felt when it connected.

The air whooshed out of him in a great rush. He doubled over, wheezing and retching, trying to breathe and make sense of what had happened and failing at both. Another blow crashed into space between his shoulder blades and sent him to the floor. Goyle's battered hand grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over onto his back. His fist crashed into Draco's face once, twice, and then the world went dim. Goyle grunted as he lifted Draco onto his shoulder, and there was the sensation of a clumsy turn as he Disapparated them.

Searing pain brought the world hurtling back. Draco screamed and clutched at his calf. Hot blood soaked through his trousers and onto his hands.

"What happened?" came a swift, even voice.

Draco looked up, but the other man's face was swathed in shadow.

"Must've splinched him," Goyle said.

He nudged Draco's knee with his foot, and Draco gritted his teeth against the pain. There was a long moment of silence.

"Squid?" Goyle asked tentatively.

Draco's heart skipped several beats.  _Squid_. It actually  _was_  a name.

"A little blood loss never hurt anyone."

The smile in the man's voice sent chills crawling down Draco's spine, and he realized that Squid did not simply hate him. Squid  _loathed_ him.

That didn't help narrow down his identity, but the depth of Squid's malice was certainly interesting. Plenty of wizards hated him, and there were a fair few who wouldn't hesitate to hex him when his back was turned, but Squid wanted to do much more than simply  _hex_. He wanted to maim. To  _ruin_. He had risked the Malfoy wards, hired an assassin, and kidnapped the heir to a broken dynasty. That was far above average levels of hate. That was personal. As personal as it got.

It was a lot like revenge.

The cogs in his head began to turn.

"Tie him up," Squid ordered.

Goyle took Draco under the arms and lifted, hurling him into a wooden chair. With a twist of his wrist and a muttered, " _Incarcerous_ ," thick ropes bound him tight. They were too tight, restricting his breathing, cutting into his injured leg, binding his wrists so that he could barely curl his fingers. Draco's vision fogged over. He fought to keep it clear.

"You don't have to do this."

Draco's voice was no louder than a wheeze, but Goyle heard. He glanced at him, his eyes dark beneath his jutting brow. He opened his mouth to reply, but Squid's voice cut the brief silence like a knife.

"Ape!"

Without another look, Goyle stalked out of sight.

Draco swore and looked around. To say he was in deep shite was an understatement. They had taken him to a derelict Muggle warehouse. The floor was concrete, well worn, and cracked in several areas. The windows were thick and clouded with grime, barely letting in any light despite it being near noon. The ceiling was a maze of industrial piping and ductwork. Only a few cobweb-strewn lights looked like they had the wiring to function. It was a moot observation; Draco very much doubted that power was still supplied to the place.

A clatter and the indistinct sound of raised voices came from the gloom where Squid and Goyle had disappeared.

Draco bared his teeth. He remembered when Goyle couldn't look him in the eye without wetting his trousers, when he asked permission to use the loo or go to sleep. Now he was taking Draco  _hostage_?

And Squid… Draco could not shake the feeling that he knew the man. From Hogwarts, undoubtedly, but what House? What year? Hell, did it even matter? Squid could've been one of his bunkmates, and it would not have changed his fate. The minute he breached the Manor's wards, he had proven himself a threat to the Malfoy family. When his assassin had almost killed him and Hermione, he had proven his tenacity and his cunning. When he had sent Goyle –  _Ape_  – to kidnap him?

Draco smiled a twisted, sneering smile.  _That_  was a mistake. A  _fatal_  mistake.

"Rethinking your strategy, gentlemen?" Draco called across the echoing space with mocking courtesy. "You do realize whom you've taken, yes?"

Goyle stepped into the light, but Squid held back, still a part of the shadows.

"We know," he said quietly.

"Then you know that the Ministry will be looking for me, and that my family –"

" _Your family_."

Squid surged forward into the light, his voice raw with venom. Hatred burned deep in his gleaming, brown eyes. Though he had expected a Hogwarts classmate, Draco was startled by Squid's youth. His thin, sandy-blond hair was nearly the same color as his light brown eyes. He stood only to Goyle's shoulders, yet seemed much larger despite his wiry frame. He took a shaky breath. His voice was brittle when he next spoke.

"Your family is the only reason you're still alive. But don't worry: that won't last long."

"An old woman and a man who can barely call himself a wizard." Draco barked a scornful laugh. "How about you untie me, and we'll see who the superior wizard is?"

Squid paused, as if considering it. "Do you have his wand?"

Goyle shook his head. "Didn't have it on him."

"Like father, like son, then," Squid said with a low chuckle.

Draco sneered, but let it drop. He still had his wand, stowed safely in the holster Hermione had given him. It was his only advantage. It would be unwise to invite a more thorough search. He had to try another strategy.

"You want gold, I assume? Fine. Consider it done. You can Apparate into the Malfoy vaults directly, if you want. Take as much as you desire. Untie me and I'll give you the coordinates."

Goyle shot Squid an excited look, which Squid did not acknowledge. Goyle's brow furrowed, and Draco saw his opening. Whatever Squid's aim was, it did not align with Goyle's. Maybe Squid hadn't explained his motivations fully. Maybe he had, and Goyle had simply forgotten. It wouldn't have been the first time the oaf had bungled simple instructions. It didn't matter: information was nearly as good a weapon as a wand.

"It's a bluff," Squid said shortly. "The Ministry took everything."

"The Malfoys would never trust their real treasures to  _goblins_ ," Draco said with disgust. "Our vault is brimming. Art, jewels, scrolls, artifacts… You can have it all."

"You'd just… let us have it?"

Draco turned to Goyle and tried to soften his expression into something more trusting and less murderous. "I won't say a word."

It was a lie, of course. As soon as he could get to his wand, he would hex both of these fools within an inch of their fucking lives and make sure they rotted in Azkaban for whatever remained. But Goyle never was the brightest and, having come from a poorer pure-blooded family, had a history of jealousy regarding the Malfoys' easy wealth.

"Squid?"

"It was never about the money, Ape."

Goyle was silent for a moment and said tentatively, "But I thought –"

"I don't  _care_  what you  _thought_ ," Squid snapped. "This is about revenge. It's always been about revenge."

"Revenge for what?" Draco asked incredulously. "I don't even  _know_  you."

Squid's smile was cold. "No, you don't. Not really. I was inconsequential, too young and small to attract much attention."

"Then what the fuck is this all about?"

The question earned him another cold smile. "It won't be long now."

* * *

Squid enjoys the sight of Malfoy bound and bleeding. It has been the subject of his fantasies for years now. He has imagined it in every different way, in every different place, but no dream has ever come close to how sweet this feels. He enjoys Malfoy's bluster, how he talks as if his survival is guaranteed when the reality is quite the opposite. Best are the flickers of uncertainty in Malfoy's maddening, silver eyes. Squid could survive for years on those glimmers of fear.

He does not want to look away, does not want to miss a second of his finest achievement, but there is another matter that needs tending, and its moment has arrived. Squid turns away from his prey and pulls a flask and a vial out of his pocket. Both are warm from the heat of his body.

It is not ideal. The length of the transformation depends on two variables: the quality of the additive and the temperature at which it is added. Fresh additive and a room-temperature potion yield the best results, but Squid cannot obtain the former and has no time to wait for the latter to cool naturally, as would be required. He must act now.

He uncorks the flask and inhales. It is a mild smell, like unscented lotion, which surprised him when he first brewed it. He had expected a strong, thick odor, a stench that would match the potion's mud-like consistency. But the potion – like him – is only a vessel. A tool that becomes what it is meant to be only after the key ingredient is added.

Squid unscrews the vial. His heart speeds up in anticipation. His hands shake, and he takes a long, shuddering breath to steady himself.

His parents had broken down after his brother died. His father had lost his mind and his job, and had drowned himself in alcohol. His mother had turned silent, cold, and distant. She'd cleaned his brother's room with obsessive fervor. It had taken him years to find what he needed. Countless nights of sneaking into his brother's room with nothing but a torch, a pair of tweezers, and a paper bag. Hours of combing through carpet strands, garbage bags of clothes that were to be thrown away, and the dusty corners of his Hogwarts trunk.

It was there that he finally found them: three hairs, complete with follicle. Squid sobbed as he dropped them into the bag, his hands shaking so badly that he nearly lost them all. And though he knew each one was precious, and that he should wait to use them, the desire to see his brother again was too strong to resist.

He staggered back to his bedroom, locked the door, and dragged the cauldron out of his closet. He removed the Stasis charm and ladled eight ounces of his carefully brewed potion into a glass. Hands still trembling, he added a hair.

The potion turned the color of new moss. Squid drank it in one gulp. He did not hesitate.

He does the same now, taking a second to appreciate the strong, not unpleasant flavor. Then, all sensations lose importance except for one:  _pain_. But it is a pain he embraces, one he craves, one that is orgasmic in its intensity. Since they are blood, it does not take long for his bones and tendons to rearrange themselves into a shape that feels more natural, more real than the one he was born into. When the shuddering subsides and the agony fades, he Summons a mirror.

_Colin_.

Squid reaches out to the mirror, touches his brother's cheek with his fingers. The mirror is cold, but it warms beneath him, feels like skin, and a quiet sob bursts from him. It has been so long since the last time. Too long.

Tears fall from Colin's hazy blue eyes.

"They killed us that day," he whispers.

Squid feels his stomach lurch.

"We were too young to die."

The truth nearly sends him to his knees. Colin, his brother. Colin, his friend. The only person who understood him. The only one who could calm his frequent rages. The one who had explained what being a Gryffindor meant, and who Harry Potter was, and how this world was so different from the one they came from. Colin was his guide, his moral compass, and his conscience.

Without him, Squid is lost.

He presses his fingers harder against the reflective surface, and Colin's eyes flick over Squid's shoulder, looking at the poorly lit scene beyond. Squid has to smile; that is quintessentially Colin. Fearless, fair, single-minded. He can be those things, too. He can be anything when Colin is with him.

He turns around and walks back into the light. Wasting time with his brother is a sacrilege.

Malfoy's body lurches and his eyes widen in horror.

"Recognize me now?"

He plants his hands on Malfoy's forearms, which are bound to the arms of the chair. He leans in close, tilting the chair backward as he does. Colin is stronger, always knows the limits of his strength. Squid knows them, too, and does not let Malfoy drop, though he wants to.

"Creevey…" Malfoy's voice breaks.

Squid feeds on his fear, digging his fingers into the flesh of Malfoy's arms. He sees each follicle of Malfoy's day-old beard and the sweat on his upper lip and at his hairline. He smells his cologne and the lingering scent of the fruit he had for breakfast. He feels his wealth, his privilege, his opportunity, and it makes Squid tight, makes him feel super-coiled, ready to spring.

Squid bares his teeth and roars, screams out his tension and rage into Malfoy's stunned face, screams until his lungs hurt and he has no air left. He shoves himself away, letting the chair fall back hard on its legs.

"Someone is going to die tonight," he says, panting. "It is not going to be you."

Malfoy's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Why are you doing this?"

Squid's lip curls in disgust. "You  _still_  don't know?" He laughs; it is a short, derisive sound. "Can your memory be that poor, or are you truly so apathetic that you don't remember?"

"What I remember is the Wizengamot dismissing your case. There was no evidence that my father ever –"

Squid leaps, his hand flying in a vicious backhand across Malfoy's face. It bruises his knuckles and splits Malfoy's lip. The wound trickles blood down his chin.

"Do not defend him!" he spits, his eyes wild with rage. "Do not dare! Your father killed me, and the Wizengamot let him live! I deserve justice! I deserve revenge!"

"Well you have me, you crazy bastard, so do what you will!"

"And what satisfaction will killing  _you_  give me? Death would be wasted on you. No, I want you to live with the pain I have lived with. I want you to  _suffer_. If your parents do not arrive soon," he says with a smile, "I may have to work with what I have. Perhaps a finger or two will motivate them."

"They'll bring the money," Ape says.

It is half question, half statement. He looks between Malfoy and Squid.

"They'll bring it," he continues as the silence draws on, "and then we'll leave."

Ape's naïveté is more than Squid can bear. He snaps his head toward Ape and snarls. "Shut it, you great buffoon, before I curse the tongue from your mouth."

The warehouse door creaks open. Squid takes two steps forward, then remembers. He turns back to Ape with a look that demands obedience. "Hold him."

Squid watches closely as Ape hesitates, as if he is unsure of what to do, or perhaps why he is to do it. But whatever thought had delayed him passes. His stubborn, angry expression – his default look – returns. He puts his wand against Draco's temple. Squid nods once. Ape can make it through this.

One of the Malfoys will not.

* * *

The pit of Draco's stomach fell to the floor as Lucius walked through the door, followed closely by Narcissa.

They came. They actually  _came_.

He shouldn't have been surprised. He was their only son, the Malfoy heir, and he had only just returned from his self-imposed exile. Of course they came. And, judging by the size of the large drawstring bag hanging from his mother's wrist, they had brought a considerable amount of money with them.

"Throw down your wands!"

Colin Creevey's voice echoed off the high ceiling, and Draco shuddered, reminding himself that it was not Colin, who was dead, but his brother Dennis, who, coincidentally, was going to be dead once Draco escaped. Speaking of which…

"You can't honestly think this is going to end well for you, Greg," Draco said quietly.

Goyle shifted behind him as his mother dropped her wand. Draco's eyes shot to Lucius, but his father's gaze did not falter. Dennis Summoned Narcissa's wand and caught it in the air. He stowed it in his back pocket and adjusted his aim to where Narcissa stood.

" _He_  may want to kill us, but you don't. I  _know_  you don't. We grew up together, Greg. My father taught us to fly. My mother taught us how to impress girls." Goyle's wand eased off his skin and began to fall. "You want our money? That's fine. You can have it. All of it. My inheritance, my company's profits, and everything in our vault. I don't  _care_  about any of that. I just don't want you to do something irreversible, something you'd regret for the rest of your life."

"You're lying." Goyle sounded uncertain.

"I'm not," Draco said with a small laugh.

He was surprised it was true. He had lived without money for three years and had gotten along just fine. Coming back to a full wardrobe, formal, five-course dinners, and a manor – a bloody  _manor_  – stuffed with more antiques and artifacts than would fill most Muggle museums was strange to him. He understood how the "other half" Narcissa used to reference must have felt about him, and how that feeling of jealousy and resentment would have been doubly strong for Goyle, who had grown up seeing it all and having none of it.

"I'll make a blood oath with you, Greg. An Unbreakable Vow. You can have it. You can have –"

"Keep him quiet!" Dennis barked, sending an angry look over his shoulder.

Goyle brought his wand back to Draco's temple at once, looking ashamed.

"Greg," Draco said with a growl. "You don't have to –"

"Yes, I do," he muttered. "It's too late now."

"We've brought the money."

Lucius' voice betrayed nothing, as steady as it was during his Wizengamot trial for Creevey's murder. Narcissa pressed the bag into Lucius' open palm. Dennis tracked their every movement. His fingers twitched as Lucius lifted the bag. He held it before him, his cold, grey eyes beckoning Dennis to come get it.

Dennis' eyes narrowed; he was smarter than that.

"Throw it over."

Lucius' expression remained stony. He complied with a smooth, easy motion. All eyes watched as the purple velvet bag sailed through the air and hit the concrete with a loud, metallic thud.

Goyle lowered his wand and moved toward the money, his large hand already outstretched. Dennis heard his movement, and, without looking, fired a hex. It landed mere inches from Goyle's left foot.

"Bloody hell!"

"Don't  _move_!" Dennis shouted.

The room stilled when Narcissa spoke. "You have what you asked for."

"That is not all I asked for." Dennis' voice was a low growl. "Step forward."

Lucius took a step back and shifted, blocking Narcissa almost completely from view.

"No." Lucius' voice cracked. It was his first sign of weakness. "You can have me, but you cannot have her."

"I don't  _want_  you," Dennis said with a snarl. "I don't have any  _use_  for you. You killed the person who mattered most to me, so I have to kill the person who matters most to  _you_. That is how this works."

"I won't let –"

"Lucius." Narcissa's voice was soft, on the edge of tears. She wrapped her hand around his arm. "Lucius, please…"

Draco's heart pounded in his chest. He strained at his bonds, flexing and relaxing, hoping to coax some leniency out of the immovable ropes. He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, and  _pulled_ , straining his muscles, popping his joints, holding his breath.

Nothing.

He opened his eyes, then blinked, because what he saw made no sense.

Goyle was unconscious and hovering a few inches above the floor. He sank slowly, his large shoes hitting the concrete first, followed by his legs, hips, torso, and, finally, his head. All without a single sound. Thick ropes materialized around his wrists and feet, and a gag forced itself between his lips.

Then, the ropes around Draco disappeared. A small, steadying hand on his shoulder was all that stopped him from leaping up and tackling the bastard who had a wand on his mother.

He knew the weight of that hand, had felt its comforting presence before.

Hermione lifted her Disillusionment and bent down so that her lips brushed against his ear.

"It's okay, Draco."

It was a lie, of course. They both knew it, but Draco was so relieved to see her that he was willing to forgive her for it.

"I have this under control," she continued. "I'm going to draw attention away from Narcissa and onto me, but I need you to remain seated. I'll be blocking you from view. He needs to think that you are still incapacitated. I don't want him to panic. Nod if you understand me."

He turned his head to glare at her, then shook it deliberately. She gave him a look that was beyond exasperation, and he swore that, for a moment, she considered knocking him unconscious. Instead, her grip on his shoulder tightened, becoming surprisingly painful.

"Now is  _not_  the time to argue," she said with a hiss.

He scowled at her and vanished the gag. "Putting yourself in danger is no better."

"It's  _infinitely_  better! I'm armed, I'm trained, and he doesn't know I'm here. So nod. Your bloody.  _Head_."

He gave her a quick once over. She was in denims and a t-shirt, with not a single piece of armor to protect her. Her hair was down, which could obscure her vision, and she looked tired, which could slow her reaction time. Despite those disadvantages, Draco knew she was right. If anyone could save his family, it was Hermione.

Reluctantly, he nodded.

Hermione moved like a phantom, quickly and quietly, placing herself between Draco and Dennis. She raised her wand.

"It's over, Dennis."

The man spun quickly, whipping his wand away from Narcissa and toward Hermione. Though Draco had been expecting it, seeing it happen brought on an entirely new type of panic. Hermione may have been more prepared to fight, but Draco was no more prepared to lose her than he was his mother. His protective instincts rallied against Hermione's instructions, but he gritted his teeth and remained where he was.

He would not get her killed.

Dennis' confident expression disappeared as he beheld Hermione's wand. He readjusted his grip and shifted his stance.

"It is not." It was almost a question.

"Yes," Hermione said. "It is. I know what you think Lucius did, but –"

"He killed us!" Dennis shouted.

His wand swung back over to Narcissa. His entire body shook.

Hermione spoke more loudly. "No, Dennis. He didn't. I've reexamined the evidence. The  _Prior_   _Incantato_  on Malfoy's wand showed no sign of the Killing Curse on the Day of Defeat. Lucius did not kill your brother. Someone else did."

A spasm of pain wracked Dennis' body, briefly doubling him over. Draco tensed, but Hermione held her hand out behind her: it wasn't time yet.

"We can still end this peacefully," she said. "You've done a lot of wrong, Dennis, but it's not over yet. You haven't done anything that can't be undone. If you surrender now, with no one getting hurt, I can help you. I can tell the Wizengamot how you could have done something terrible, but chose not to. I can tell you how proud your brother would have been that you did the right thing, even though it felt wrong."

Dennis hunched over again. His anguished moan filled the dense silence.

"I can't," he said weakly. "I can't do it."

"You  _can_ , Dennis. For yourself. For  _Colin_."

Dennis straightened at his brother's name, and rage twisted his lips into an ugly snarl.

"You have no right to say his name!"

How Lucius knew to move, Draco would never know. Maybe he saw something in Dennis' eyes, recognized what it looked like when someone decides to kill someone else. Maybe he noticed Dennis' wand slowly creeping upwards, knew that it would only stop when level with Hermione's chest. Maybe his conscience, after lying dormant for most of his adult life, broke free from its cage after realizing that a young, Muggleborn witch was prepared to sacrifice herself for his family.

Maybe it was all those reasons. Maybe it was none of them. Maybe it didn't matter.

Maybe all that mattered was that Lucius moved at exactly the right second, Apparating just before Dennis began the curse and arriving just as it finished. His accuracy was impeccable, completely shielding Hermione with his body, taking the full force of Dennis' Avada Kedavra.

The world stopped for an instant as Draco watched his father fall. Everything hung in dreadful silence until his body hit the floor. Then Narcissa screamed and life erupted again, flying into motion at two times its normal pace.

Hermione fired off a barrage of powerful spells, blinding light flinging off Dennis' hastily cast shield. Draco flicked his wrist and palmed his wand. He launched himself from the chair, ready to fight, to kill the bastard who had killed his father.

Then he froze.

His mother knelt before him. Her thin body quivered; she had never looked so weak. A knife of concern stabbed through him, and he was torn, caught between the women he loved, unsure which of them needed him more.

"Draco!" Hermione's yell caught his attention. "I can't hold him like this! Get back to the Manor and alert the Ministry. Tell them where I am and what's happened!"

She ducked as a curse zoomed over her head, then flung a quick shield over Draco and Narcissa. The ward shimmered from the power of Dennis' hex, and Draco felt a wave of heat wash over him.

"I can't leave…"

"Go, Draco!" She took her eyes off the battle for one moment, one terrifying moment, to give him an earnest, pleading look. "She  _needs_  you."

He looked back at Narcissa, whose shaking hands hovered less than an inch over Lucius' corpse. His mouth was set in a grim line of resolve, his brow was slightly furrowed, and his eyes were still open. Draco fell to his knees beside him and grasped his mother's hands, stilling them.

"Draco! Now!"

Another blast of heat made Hermione's shield waver. Narcissa looked from her husband to her son. It was like looking at a stranger. Her natural assuredness was long gone, replaced by a question she couldn't ask and a direction she didn't understand. Draco Summoned the velvet money bag and caught it with one hand. He laid it on his father's chest, placed his and his mother's hand atop it, and whispered, " _Portus_."

A strong tug behind his navel sent him spinning through space. They landed in the Manor's foyer, and the jolt of familiar surroundings broke Narcissa from her shock. Her shaking resumed, she began to speak, but Draco could not stay to comfort her. Not yet.

He let go of her hand and began to walk; this turned into a run, which turned into a sprint. As he tore through the Manor's halls, the news of Lucius' death followed him, spreading from portrait to portrait like fire through dry brush. Moans and wails filled the cavernous space, echoing off the high ceilings, ringing in his ears, driving him forward. It was so loud, so overwhelming, threatening to send him to his knees. He wanted to collapse, to clutch his head and tear at his hair and scream with them.

A door flew open before him. He leapt inside and slammed it shut. The noise ceased.

Draco took a moment to catch his breath. He sank into the silence until it began to feel heavy and then looked around. He was at the Relay. He marched up to the informal Floo and grabbed the urn from the shelf. Tossing a handful of powder into the flames, he shouted, "Send me wherever the fuck Harry Potter is."

To his surprise, the Floo complied, spitting him out into Potter's office.

Potter looked up from his lunch. "Malfoy, what are you…" His eyes widened as he took in Draco's bloodied and bruised body. He dropped his sandwich and stood. "Bloody hell, your leg! What the –"

"Dennis Creevey killed my father, and he's going to kill Hermione if you don't get there soon."

Potter was too familiar with life and death to ask useless questions. His green eyes hardened. "What's the address?"

"Somewhere Muggle." He tossed the bag of money onto Potter's desk, scattering his haphazard collection of quills. A few Galleons fell out of the loosely tied drawstring top and landed on his lunch. "I used this Portkey to escape. You should be able to draw the coordinates from it."

"Thank you."

"Find her and bring her back safely," Draco said with a growl. "Then you can thank me." He turned around and headed back to the Floo. "And Potter?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Bring reinforcements."

He did not remember the Floo trip home, nor the walk to the Manor's foyer. One moment, he was in Potter's office, and the next he was beside his mother. As Draco's immediate responsibilities waned, the weight of what had happened began to settle upon him. He felt exhausted, absolutely drained, and yet it wasn't over.

Narcissa had collapsed onto Lucius' body. Her body shook with silent sobs, her grief so intense that she could barely breathe. Draco knelt beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. She rose at his touch and clung to him, to the only family she could claim. Draco held her tightly.

His eyes wandered over the foyer, focusing on anything but his father's body, eventually coming to rest on the ring finger of his right hand.

The Malfoy signet ring. Shining platinum stamped with their house crest, set with emeralds and onyx and dusted with diamonds.

It had appeared there as soon as Lucius' heart stopped beating, but Draco had not had time to notice. Now, he felt the weight of it like an anchor, rooting him to Wiltshire, to his mother, to his father's – no,  _his_  – company.

His days of running were at an end. With the death of his father came the death of his freedom. No longer could he act without considering the consequence or live without recognizing his responsibilities. He did not feel ready for it. There was so much more his father had to teach him, so many experiences he hadn't yet had. But whether he was ready or not didn't matter. Running his family's business, salvaging his family's reputation, ensuring that the Malfoy legacy would last for centuries. Those were his duties now.

He would bear them well.

A surge of pride swelled in Draco's chest and lifted his chin. He was the patriarch now. He would run his business and protect his family, and he would do so with exceptional skill and grace. He would ensure that his mother lived the rest of her life in comfort and that she wanted for nothing. He would surround himself with experienced professionals, listen to their advice, and use his own cunning and acumen to further his company's portfolio. He would succeed where his father failed, excel where his father struggled, and learn where his father stalled. He would show the world what sort of son Lucius Malfoy had raised and prove that his father, despite his faults, was, at his core, a decent man.

Draco shuddered as the moment passed. His head sank, his chest deflated. He held his mother closer, rested his head on her shoulder, and began to grieve.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, finally arrived at the end. Thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with me through posting. I hope you enjoyed the ride. I know I have! <3

**Chapter Fifteen**

**August 3**

The  _Prophet_  covered Lucius' death almost as extensively as they had covered Dumbledore's. The front page featured the obligatory obituary, including a brief synopsis of Lucius' life, his involvement with Voldemort, and his sentencing. It concluded with vague details of his manner of death, a short paragraph on Narcissa, and a longer paragraph about Draco.

Pages two and three delved into the  _how_  of Lucius' death with intense detail. After the Ministry had captured Dennis Creevey, Potter himself came over to debrief Draco and his mother. By the end of the interview, he had the distinct impression that no one was to know about what had happened in that rundown Muggle warehouse, his reason being some rot about the  _memory of a fallen hero_. Well, Draco didn't give a flying Niffler about any of the Creeveys, but he was more than happy to keep his involvement in the mess quiet.

Being a strictly confidential matter, it was no surprise when the article mentioned "traces of Polyjuice Potion found in Creevey's blood" and how "Malfoy's illegal Portkey creation" had saved his mother. Draco could count the number of people privy to those details on two hands. It was obvious now: there was a leak in the MLE Office. How else could Laurier have known that he was in a no-name town in Canada, or the nature of the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor? He should have figured it out much sooner. In fact, he was embarrassed that it had taken him as long as it had taken the Ministry. According to the  _Prophet_ , an investigation was "ongoing," whatever the fuck that meant. Draco didn't think he would ever learn the identity of the leak, which was probably a good thing. He entertained dark fantasies about what he would do to the man if they ever crossed paths.

Half of page four was dedicated to a lengthy and far more detailed biography of Lucius and included speculation on Narcissa's future. The other half of the page was devoted to Draco. His questionable past, where he had been, what his role was in this latest catastrophe, what his responsibilities were now that Lucius was dead, and what – exactly – was the nature of his relationship with Hermione Granger, who had been there that night, and, if the article spanning pages two and three was to be believed, had been saved by Lucius.

The rest of the paper was the usual riffraff, a mixture of gossip, truth-laced lies, and Quidditch scores.

Draco crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the bin. Not even the Quidditch scores could interest him today. He put his elbows on the leather blotter of his father's – rather,  _his_  – large desk, and put his head in his hands. Sunlight filtered through the curtains behind him, warming his back and neck. Still, he shuddered.

He had to bury his father today.

The reality of it crept up on him slowly, making him pause during breakfast, as he walked the Manor's hall, as he entered his father's – no, _his_ ,damn it – study.

Already, things were changing: the Manor had recognized and accepted Draco as its new master. Nowhere was this more obvious than the study, where Draco had spent the majority of his time. The curtains at Draco's back – now sheer beige – had been thick, dark, and brocade green during his father's tenure. The mahogany desk and bookshelves began to lighten to a rich cherry, the rugs slowly shifted from complicated Oriental patterns to simpler, more modern forms, and celestial beings, which had been locked in fierce battle upon the study's ceiling since Draco's youth, began to fade, giving way to a real-time reflection of the sky above, an homage to the beloved Great Hall at Hogwarts.

In most areas of the Manor, however, Lucius' presence lingered like the smell of smoke after a fire or the feel of Dark magic after a terrible curse. The walls were dark and decorated sparsely, creating the feel of privacy and security even in the largest rooms. Where Narcissa typically lingered, Lucius allowed the Manor to abandon its isolated motif in favor of a light, elegant styling, decorated with the restraint only women of good breeding possessed.

Maybe all of that would change, too. Maybe the Manor would remain in a state of flux until Draco died. It would take him that long to feel settled again.

He felt Narcissa's presence at the door and looked up. She was dressed in all black, as befitted a widow, her robe high necked, simply cut, and unadorned. A black birdcage veil, pinned to her hair with a large, black flower, obscured her face from forehead to chin. Still, Draco was able to discern the alarming paleness of her skin and her red-rimmed eyes.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

"It's a beautiful day," she said quietly. "Flying weather."

Draco did not have to look outside to know it was the truth; he felt it in his bones. He and his father were similar in that way. When Draco was younger, they would only have to exchange a look over breakfast, and Narcissa would sigh, knowing that the day was lost to flying. Those times became rarer and rarer as Draco grew, as Voldemort fell, rose, and fell again. Draco never appreciated those moments as he should have, and now it was too late.

He stood and brushed invisible dust from his impeccable robes.

"It's time, I suppose?"

Narcissa nodded. She clutched a balled handkerchief in her left hand.

"Nearly."

Draco nodded back and stepped forward to offer her his arm. She took it, and her hand felt small and frail. He placed his hand over hers.

"We'll get through this, Mother. One more day of this circus, then they'll all leave and we can…"

He trailed off. What would they do? Survive, he supposed. Living seemed like too optimistic a word.

They walked through the Manor in silence, making their way toward the western exit. The doors opened for them, and Draco squinted as he stepped into the sunlight. The Malfoy burial ground, or The Acre, as his family had named it, was a ten-minute walk from the Manor, and they were both wearing black. They would be roasted and sweat-soaked by the time they arrived.

Draco twisted his wrist, and his wand shot into his palm. His fingers closed around it automatically. He smiled and then winced, thinking of his first few tries using the holster and the witch who had given it to him. The witch he hadn't seen since his father had saved her life.

Pushing the bitter thought from his mind, he cast a cooling charm on his mother, then on himself. Narcissa shivered and thanked him with a squeeze of her hand. He stowed his wand and focused on his feet, on matching the length of his footsteps to Narcissa's.

"You've done well this week."

Draco jerked his head up in surprise. The Acre lay ahead, settled in a valley just on the edge of the dense forest that ringed their property.

"Thank you." He paused for a moment. "It's… I'm not sure if what I'm doing is correct, if my ideas even make sense. There was so much more he had to teach me, and I don't know if I can –"

Narcissa stopped. He turned toward her and closed his eyes as she laid her hand upon his cheek. " _I_  know you can," she said. The confidence and pride in her voice made his eyes sting with tears. " _I_  know it."

"Will you…" He cleared his throat, pushing away the sob that threatened to overtake him. "Will you help me?"

"Of course I will, Draco. But I promise: you won't need it."

He nodded, and she swiped her thumb beneath his eye, wiping his tears away.

"We must be strong," she whispered. "One more day, yes?"

Draco exhaled a shuddering breath.

"Yes," he repeated. "One more day."

Narcissa released his arm as they reached the cemetery's edge, and Draco stepped forward. A frisson of magic shot through his arm as he touched the forbidding iron fence surrounding the graveyard. Then, with a spine-tingling screech, the gate opened.

The warm, sunlit day disappeared as soon as Draco crossed the threshold. The Acre was not so much a place as a placeholder, a way station between corporeal existence and the one beyond. The strange, red-orange sky was muted, as if a film that filtered out the sun's brightest rays had been laid across it and forgotten for centuries. In fact, there was no sun in this place. There was no wind, either, but the black branches of sentinel yews, brittle and bare, swayed as though there were.

Draco took Narcissa's hand, and together, they wove through The Acre, avoiding the mounds and small cairns that signified family members buried and forgotten. The long, grey grass rustled against their robes, but that was the only sound. No birds, no insects, nothing besides his and Narcissa's steady breathing. Malfoys were the only creatures who could survive in this place, and, even with the protection of their blood, they could not survive for long.

Narcissa gasped as Lucius' corpse, shrouded in black silk and wreathed in rowan, cypress, and asphodel, appeared before them. The grey grasses had disappeared beneath and around his body, leaving the dark brown earth bare and ready to take him.

Narcissa knelt on Lucius' right side; Draco knelt on his left. Narcissa held her hands in front of her, over the body, and Draco mirrored her motions. Their gazes locked and, after a long moment, Narcissa nodded. Their hands descended slowly, coming to rest atop Lucius' shrouded form.

Draco let them rest there for a second and closed his eyes, remembering what was best about his father. The times they flew, the times they laughed. The lessons he taught – both good and bad – and the rare glimpses of pride that Draco would always treasure. The relief and joy in his father's eyes when he finally returned home, the wry twist of his mouth as he considered Draco's choices, his determination, his resolve, his nobility, his acceptance of fate, both his and Draco's.

Draco began to cry, and as the tears fell, he began to push.

The earth was unyielding at first, but its resistance was only a test – one that Draco and Narcissa could not fail. After a moment, it moved aside, parting like warm water, accepting Lucius into it, drawing him in and down, and covering him completely.

In less than a minute, it was done. Draco opened his eyes. A small mound of bare earth was the only evidence that Lucius Malfoy's burial had ever taken place. Then, small shoots of grey grass began to appear. Narcissa sobbed.

It was a good burial, Draco knew. Lucius had been accepted, and his magic was now part of the ancestral power that kept Malfoy Manor and its occupants safer than traditional magic ever could.

Draco looked up as the red-orange sky grew darker. The sentinel yews loomed larger, turning a deeper shade of black, and fear stirred in the pit of his stomach.

"Come, Mother," said Draco, rising to his knees. "We have to go. This place is not for us now."

He stepped around Lucius' grave, which was covered with inch-high shoots, and tugged Narcissa upright. She leaned on him heavily, and he guided her out of The Acre as quickly as he dared, taking care not to tread on any graves.

He touched the iron fence once more, and the magic that shot down his arm stung. It was a reminder. Grieving was a luxury for which a patriarch had little time. He had to focus on the future.

They passed the walk to the Manor in absolute silence, Narcissa eventually finding the strength to travel on her own. She crossed the marble portico and hesitated for a minute before stepping over the threshold of the east doors, which waited open for her. He saw the steel in her spine and knew it was because she did not want to do what protocol dictated she must: host the grieving party.

He did not want to do it, either. His company's council members would be all insincere grief and measured questions. They did not need to grieve because they did not miss his father. They wanted what Lucius had had – control of the company – and they would use these four hours in the afternoon to gauge Draco's ability and assess Narcissa's vulnerability. A few would even try to con her into marriage.

She was smarter than that, of course, but anger seethed within him at the very thought of one of them trying. He clenched his jaw and lifted his chin. He would protect his family, and he would begin with the only family he had left: his mother.

The task was as odious as Draco had imagined. Once the guests had filtered out of the public tea room, he shrugged out of his robe, tossed it onto the couch, loosened his cravat, and poured himself three fingers of bourbon. He leaned against the window and glared out at the western edge of his property. The sun was just beginning to touch the forest's tall trees.

"I'm glad that's over," Narcissa said wearily. Draco heard the clink of glass and the soft sound of liquid pouring over ice.

"Same," he said, taking a sip. "How many marriage proposals did you receive?"

"Four. One each from Priggins and Palmly, and two from Davis, who seemed to think I hadn't heard him correctly the first time he asked."

"Palmly's married."

Narcissa narrowed an annoyed look at him. "Wives can be disposed of more easily than you would ever expect. I don't have to tell you to watch out for these men."

Draco laughed darkly. "No, Mother, you certainly don't. I'll arrange meetings with all three next week and remind them of why they want to remain on my good side."

Narcissa laugh-sobbed, and Draco knew why: in that moment, he was purely his father's son. He stared at the signet ring on his finger, smiled a sad smile, and took another sip.

"I did not expect to see the Potters," she remarked after taking a minute to compose herself.

"Potter never misses an opportunity to flaunt his kindheartedness," Draco said with a dark chuckle. "The git."

"I was surprised, however, that –"

"Mistress? Master?"

Draco glanced over his shoulder at the house-elf.

"Yes?"

"You has a visitor."

"Send whoever it is away," he said with a sneer, turning back toward the window. "Visiting hours are –"

"Draco?"

His words died on his lips and the blood rushed from his head. He whirled around, nearly sloshing alcohol down his front, just to look at her.

Hermione stood at the threshold. Her black dress was modestly cut, fitted through the bust, flaring out at her hips, and ending at her knees. She wore low black shoes, a pearl necklace, and matching earrings. Her hair was down, and curls spilled over her shoulders. She held a potted cactus and a wrapped package.

Her eyes flitted to him briefly, taking in his crisp white shirt and black dress trousers, but they did not linger. Draco momentarily hated her for it. Momentarily hated her for a lot of things, in fact.

"Narcissa," she said softly, taking a step forward. "I –"

"You're late," he accused.

Two sets of eyes swiveled back to him, one pair furrowed in confusion, and the other narrowed in anger, practically barbequing him for his rudeness.

"How did you even get in here?"

"I named her a Trusted," Narcissa said icily, rising from her seat on the couch. "I updated it immediately after…"

Narcissa trailed off, leaving Hermione to pick up the conversation before the silence could fester.

"I know I'm late. I'm so sorry, and I'll leave if you want me to, but I didn't want… I had to come to…"

She turned to Narcissa. Even from ten feet away, Draco could see tears brimming her eyes. He nearly tripped over himself standing still. He wanted to go to her, but didn't. She had abandoned him, had left him alone and answerless after his father took a curse for her. After he had  _died_  for her. He couldn't forget that, and wasn't sure he could forgive it, either.

"What is that?"

Narcissa nodded to the cactus. Hermione looked down at her hands.

"Oh," she said with a sniffle. "This is your wand." She handed over the wrapped package. "It was finally released from evidence."

Narcissa hefted the wand for a moment and closed her eyes, remembering that day, or maybe trying to forget it. She set it on the side table.

"And the other?"

Hermione looked back down at her hands, silent for a moment as she considered the plant.

"Draco told me about you," she started hesitatingly. "About you, and Lucius, and his trouble with orchids."

Hermione looked up at Narcissa beseechingly, as if willing her to understand. Narcissa did – Draco knew she did – but her expression gave the young witch no help. Hermione looked back down at her hands, growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

"You suggested he raise a cactus instead. I thought… Well…"

Words failed her, and she pressed the plant into Narcissa's hands. The plant came to life, fueled by the magic in Narcissa's fingers. Buds sprouted from its pointed limbs, elongating and blooming into orchid flowers that were the color of sunrise over still water.

Narcissa stared at the plant for a long moment, then set it down, and looked at Hermione with an expression that could not be anything but forgiveness. Hermione rushed into her arms with a wail, stuttering apologies between her gasping breaths, and Narcissa looked beatific throughout, crying, and smiling, and stroking Hermione's hair, murmuring reassurances and giving her all the comfort a mother ought to give an inconsolable child.

Anger burned in Draco's chest. Hermione didn't deserve that comfort. She didn't deserve anything his family had to give.

He stalked past them and slammed the door. His pace quickened as he wound through the Manor, and by the time the east doors opened for him, his shoes were clacking on the hard marble of the portico and he was nearly out of breath.

He Summoned his broom with a violent flick of his wand. There was a crash in the distance – the broom shed door breaking apart – and Draco held out his hand. His broom slapped into his open palm, stinging his skin. He ran three steps, spurred on by the pain, and leapt into the air off the portico's edge. He swung his broom underneath him and shot into the sky.

His rapid acceleration stole the air from his lungs and ripped tears from his eyes. He leaned closer over the broom handle, pushing it faster, flying it harder than he'd flown any broom. It was reckless, the way he flew. Almost suicidal. He climbed so high that his vision started to fade from lack of oxygen. He dove and pulled up so sharply that the broom shuddered and a few tailpieces snapped.

It wasn't working. He was still angry, still unreasonably bitter, still wanted to wring Hermione's neck for allowing Potter – fucking  _Potter_  – to be the one to tell him that Creevey had been captured. He had so many questions about that night, and only  _she_  had the answers.

And damned if he wasn't going to get them. He swore aloud and circled back toward the Manor at the same ferocious velocity he left it. A small, brunette figure waited for him on the portico, her black dress a stark contrast against the white marble. He bellowed another curse – he was too far up for her to hear – and dove straight for her.

Anyone else might have flinched if Draco had been coming for them like that. Anyone else would've recognized his bared teeth and his hard eyes as threats, and rightly so.

Not Hermione. She stood in the path of his broomstick, unflinching, her hands at her sides, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. She looked contrite but defiant, and Draco realized she was daring him. Daring him to hit her and hurt her. At that moment, he felt like he could.

But as the distance between them closed and her eyes narrowed in a wince, Draco realized it was not a dare, but an invitation. It was her way of admitting that she didn't deserve the comfort Narcissa had been so quick to supply, but the punishment Draco was keen to serve. She would allow him to hurt her if he wanted to, and Draco knew that, no matter how many broken bones their collision gave her, she would not resent him for it.

He yanked back on the broom handle and leapt down before it came to a full stop. He tossed the broom aside. It hovered nearby, which was for the best. If the look in Hermione's eyes was any indication of where this confrontation was heading, he might need it soon.

"You stupid cow!" Draco marched toward her. "What the fuck were you doing?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I could've run you down!"

"No, you couldn't."

He bared his teeth at her presumption, though of course she was correct. "Oh, how little you know," he seethed. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"The hell we do," he said, remembering just afterwards that they did, in fact, need to talk, and that  _he_  was the one who had decided they would. Fortunately for him, she saved him the embarrassment of calling her back by not giving an inch.

"Narcissa told me you'd be out here."

"Bully for her."

"I was afraid you might have…" She trailed off and looked at her shoes.

Draco's voice was clipped and sharp. "Left?" he supplied. "Run away?" He scoffed and looked at her in disgust. "What a charming opinion you have of me, Granger. Truly flattering. Tell me, have I always been spineless scum to you, or did that come about after I  _returned to England to protect my bloody parents_?"

"Well, technically, you weren't supposed to come back to England at all," she muttered.

That was it. Draco clenched his fists in an effort not to strike her and spun around. He took three steps away from her, pivoted, and took four steps back. He grasped her shoulders hard, digging his fingers into her soft skin.

"So this is my fault?" he bellowed. "It's my fault my father is dead? If I hadn't come back to England, they never would have taken me, and my father wouldn't have taken that curse. Tell me it is, Granger. Tell me!"

"It's not!" she yelled. Tears streamed from her eyes, dripping quickly down her cheeks. "It's not your fault! It's mine! I shouldn't have ever involved your family! After you were taken, Dennis sent a note. Narcissa came straight to me, and I just… Oh, Draco, I just panicked! You were in trouble, you were hurt, and I couldn't think… Your mother was so afraid. Your father was  _livid_ ," she choked, making a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"I'm no good in the field," she continued more quietly. "You knew it, and now you've seen it firsthand. I should've gone straight to the Ministry with the note. Harry, Ron… They would have known what to do. But I didn't. I accepted your parents' help, and now one of them is dead."

She raised her glassy eyes to his and brought her hands up, laying them on his forearms.

"It should have been me," she whispered, as if it were a secret and not a fact. "It should have been me, but it wasn't, and now I owe your family a debt I can never repay. I'm sorry, Draco. I'm so sorry for what I've done to you and your family."

Damn her.

He let go of her shoulders and stepped back, careful to keep his expression impassive.

"What happened after we left?"

Her chin quivered, but she bit her lip and held herself together. She dashed tears from her eyes and took a shuddering breath. Exhaling slowly, she opened her eyes again. She looked composed, but her voice still shook when she spoke.

"Dennis and I continued to trade spells. He doubled over a few more times, then collapsed. The Polyjuice had worn off. I disarmed, Stunned, and restrained him. Harry arrived shortly after to take Dennis into custody."

"Why couldn't you do it?"

"I had to go to St Mungo's."

"Why?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "I was hurt."

"Where?"

"That's not really rele –"

" _Where_?" His question cracked the air like a whip.

"My side," she said with a grimace. "A laceration hex. It was shallow, but bloody." She cut off his next question. "I'm fine now."

"When did Mungo's let you go?"

"A few hours later. They released me directly into custody."

Draco inhaled sharply. "Custody?"

"My suspension hadn't been lifted yet. Technically, I had gone rogue – a compromised agent interfering with a Ministry affair. I spent two nights in an MLE holding cell. Yesterday, Ron extracted a confession from Goyle. Harry got one from Dennis a few hours later. Bates reviewed my case with them, and with Baker and Dell. I was fined for breaking protocol, but that's it. As of last night, I'm fully reinstated."

That changed things. She hadn't abandoned him. She hadn't intentionally avoided him, or sent Potter to him because she wasn't interested in him past her involvement with the mission. She'd been  _arrested_. She hadn't had a choice in the matter.

That changed… Well, fuck, almost everything. But Draco was not ready to let go of his anger quite yet; that would be too easy for them both.

"You had a Floo call."

"Pardon?"

"Whenever a witch or wizard is arrested, they get a Floo call. A single one. Why didn't you call me?"

Hermione's eyes filled with tears again. She shook her head. "Why didn't I call you?" She repeated the question as if it were gibberish. "Your father had just given his  _life_  for me."

"And you didn't think it would be important for me to know whether or not his sacrifice meant anything?"

She opened and shut her mouth, swallowing thickly. "I thought… I should be the last person you wanted to talk to. You needed space, time to process –"

He rolled his eyes and said with a growl, "Again with the presumption. Who are you to dictate what I do and don't  _need_? When did that become  _your_  decision?"

"It's not," she backpedaled, her voice firm. "I did what  _I_  thought would be least painful for you and your mother. Being reminded of my debt –"

"Fuck your debt," Draco spat. He waved his hand dismissively. "I absolve you of it."

She gasped. "Draco, you can't –"

"Granger, I swear to Merlin, if you try to tell me what I  _can_  or  _cannot_  do one more time –"

"It's not that simple. I owe your family my  _life_."

"And I owe you mine. We're even."

"It's not the same."

He nearly shouted in exasperation. "It's  _exactly_  the same! You barreled into my sad, pathetic little world, shook it to pieces, and got me back to where I should be. My life for yours. Now you can bugger off and go save someone else's life."

She took a step backwards. "Is that what you want?"

No, it wasn't. That was the very opposite of what he wanted.

"Isn't that what  _you_  want?" he challenged instead, narrowing his eyes. "Weren't you  _assigned_  to this case? Didn't you have a  _choice_  in it?"

She bit her lip. "I… I wasn't assigned," she finally admitted. "I volunteered."

Draco lifted his chin. "And why would you do something like that? Curiosity, I'm sure. I was just a question you wanted the answer to, correct? What else should I expect from Hogwarts' biggest know-it-all?"

"I was curious," she admitted.

Draco rolled his eyes and sneered, turning his head away from her. He knew that was her answer. Why did it hurt him so much to hear it?

"And are you satisfied with what you've found?"

Their eyes met, and Draco was surprised to see fear reflected in her gaze. Was the truth really so terrible? His chest constricted, his breaths coming shorter and shallower. Suddenly, he did not want to know.

"Forget –"

"I'm not satisfied."

Her hand shot out, caught his wrist, traveled down so that her fingers clutched his.

"I'm fascinated."

His heart stuttered in his chest.

"Come again?"

"I'm fascinated by you, Draco," she repeated, taking a step closer. "I may hum when I cook, but do you know you whistle when you grill? It drove me insane until I actually listened to it. Like my humming, it sounds familiar, but I can't place the tune."

A cool breeze, uncharacteristic for the still, summer day, swept over them. Draco inhaled deeply, caught up in the swell.

"You're a gifted dueler," she continued, twining her fingers with his. "Your reaction time is on par with Harry's. I know you compare yourself to him, but you shouldn't. You're just as good as he is. And you're one of the most magnificent swimmers I've ever seen. You can hold your breath for a full minute, but you're trying to push yourself for longer. You scared me a few times," she said with an embarrassed chuckle. "I thought you had drowned."

"You watched me swim?"

Hermione ducked her head, but not before Draco saw the blush he loved so much.

"Once or twice," she admitted.

Draco let out a weak laugh and pressed hand to his forehead, willing himself into composure.

"What a pair we make, Granger," he said, his voice cracking.

He removed his hand and stared at her with fresh eyes, trying to uncouple what he knew and what he felt. It was a useless exercise. She would always carry with her the sacrifice his father had made for them, and he would always see it on her. She would always be a reminder of his darkest days.

But she would always be a reminder of his happiest moments as well. She would always be the promise of better days, of sunshine and lemonade, of fights in the grass and sweets at sunset.

His father had been right to save her. He would tell her that one day, when the wound of Lucius' death was not so raw. He would tell her that, even though it wasn't her fault, he forgave her anyway, and that he was grateful for Lucius' sacrifice. His father would be remembered best for his final act – for saving a war heroine and the love of his only son. It was the greatest thing Lucius had ever done for his family.

Now was not the time for that, however.

Now was the time for cultivation. For building a base and creating an environment in which they could grow, and learn, and love together.

"Are we doing this, Hermione?"

They locked eyes again, and she nodded.

"I would like to."

He held his hand out to her, and she took it. He pulled her close, and she wrapped her arms around him, automatically, instinctively, as if her body was finally where it needed to be. They clung to each other, and he buried his face in her curls as the stark lines between them blurred and disappeared into a golden haze.

In an instant, their relationship, which had never been anything but wrong, became wholly and inarguably  _right_.

**The End**


End file.
